


Flesh Memory

by KanuKoris



Category: Hannibal (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cat and Mouse, Crossover, Gen, Memory Palace, Mental games, Murder Mystery, Psychological Thriller, Serial Killers, altered timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-17 10:30:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1384225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KanuKoris/pseuds/KanuKoris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Are you familiar with the concept of a memory palace?”</p><p>	“Yes, I employ one myself.”</p><p>	Holmes was buzzing with curiosity. “And where do you keep the monsters? In the basement or in the attic?”</p><p>	Hannibal smirked. “The kitchen.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jellyfishphat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellyfishphat/gifts).



> A dark Hannibal/Sherlock crossover, and my first foray into either fandom, for my friend's birthday. Happy birthday Jelly!
> 
> Hannibal Lecter and Sherlock Holmes are two brilliant minds that can't help but be intrigued by the other. Are they friend or foe? They circle around each other carefully, entering into a deadly contest of wills.

 

“What are we doing here, Sherlock?”

 

There was no answer and the glare of neon lights was beginning to hurt his eyes. He was growing impatient. There had been a faint, but unrelenting drizzle all night, and they had left a hot Chinese dinner before he could get two mouthfuls in because Sherlock had “needed to check on something”.

 

Watson stopped in his tracks when he saw the line of men outside the club. His questioning became more insistent. “This is for a case, yes?”

 

“Shut up. Thinking.”

 

“Sherlock, this is a men's club.”

 

“That much is obvious. Continue shutting up.”

 

Sherlock pushed them both to the front of the line, flashed something at the bouncer and they were waved inside. Watson shoved his hands into his pockets and tried to grimace sympathetically at the grumbling men still waiting in line before ducking in. The music pounded in his ears at an uncomfortable level and he had to push through a sea of bodies to follow Sherlock to the bar.

 

Sherlock planted himself on a seat and went immediately into his 'observation' mode, as Watson thought it. The bartender, a large man with several studs piercing his face, looked at them expectantly and Watson ordered a pint to keep up appearances. The bartender gave him a suspicious look at the order, but then hunted for a glass. Watson then noticed behind the bar was almost an exclusive collection of different vodkas and exotic liqueurs.

 

He looked to the dance floor and saw a sea of male bodies grinding on each other in a way that left little to the imagination. He glanced curiously at Sherlock, who was off in his own little world, and huffed a sigh. He wasn't sure what the consulting detective was seeing, but it probably wasn't the cacophony of lights, tight trousers and gelled hair that was making Watson go cross-eyed.

 

Sherlock blinked once, deliberately, and then he could isolate the flashing coloured lights.

 

Chapped redness around the nostrils. A high propensity of cocaine habits in the establishment. Approximately five-eighths of the men inside. Another six-eighths of the men with the signs of extasy or MDMA. Almost all on both and a variety of other garden variety recreational drugs.

 

One man, wearing casual clothing but obviously from the business sector, patrolling the dance floor alone, pulled into a dance and then sexual contact in less than two minute forty-five seconds.

 

A man in a tasteful suit being propositioned by a younger man in a mesh top. Young man purring, “You're right, I am a rude boy.”

 

Two young men dancing together, university students, undeclared arts, fashionable clothing but from a marked down shop, touching, but no sexual contact. Friends.

 

Two men, one pulling the other by the belt to the facilities. Contract labourer, tan lines and musculature of an outdoors worker. The other a shop worker, nervous but eager. Sexual contact in less than thirty seconds.

 

“This beer is awful.”

 

Watson. Sherlock looked irritably over to Watson who was frowning into his pint glass. His concentration had been broken. Watson looked annoyed with him, something he was used to.

 

“Why are we here?”

 

“I'm collating data.”

 

Watson gave him a pointed look. “And I'm here...why?”

 

“Deterrent.”

 

Sherlock's eyes scanned the nightclub again, and he could almost hear the rusty wheels turning in Watson's mind. He'd get there eventually.

 

Ninety percent of the encounters between anonymous strangers. All leading to sexual contact and fulfilment in an average of five minutes or less. Encounters between acquaintances much more drawn out, half requiring over fifteen minutes, the other half unsuccessful.

 

 

“A deterrent?” He could hear the annoyed rasp of Watson's voice. “Am I supposed to pretend I'm... _with you_ and chase off any bloke who asks you for a dance?”

 

Sherlock compartmentalized his observations so he could keep a running timer in one corner, hunt for another encounter in the happening in another corner, and then reserve room to grace Watson with a pithy remark.

 

“You _are_ here with me.”

 

“For heaven's sake, Sherlock.”

 

Twenty encounters observed in an hour. A small sample, but it confirmed his previous observations. Watson already done with his pint, had drank three cups of tea at the Chinese shop, would require relieving his bladder in twenty minutes. Plenty of time to make it back to Baker street.

 

“Let's be off.”

 

Watson looked both relieved and annoyed as he shoved away from the bar. They didn't speak until they had left the pounding music and chaos behind, walking quickly through the late night rain.

 

Before Watson could interrupt him again, Sherlock recited his findings aloud. “The average time it takes for an anonymous sexual encounter between two homosexual men, if both have the exclusive purpose of such an encounter, is seventeen minutes. Five minutes to find a partner, an agreement to take place, ten minutes for sexual gratification of both parties.”

 

Watson looked nonplussed. “And the two minutes?”

 

“Allowing for transit time.”

 

Watson scratched the back of his neck, a puzzled grimace on his face. “That's a little narrow, Sherlock. There must be plenty of queer blokes who want a nice date and to take things slowly.”

 

“This is pertaining to our Mr. Riley. He was in an establishment such as this. Seventeen minutes, allowing for up to a further ten minutes, but not much longer in a public space with security and other patrons.”

 

“Riley was gay? The missing banker whose wife called us?”

 

Sherlock smirked at Watson. “That's a little narrow, John.”

 

Watson had the good grace to look embarrassed.

 

“Riley disappeared for one hour and six minutes before he was seen leaving the establishment. He lied to his wife about his sexual encounter. He was engaged in another sort of business.”

 

“You think he's mixed up in something sinister?”

 

Sherlock shrugged, they were five minutes away from Baker Street. “Sinister? No. Criminal. Drugs. Boring.”

 

Watson opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it and closed it with a tired shake of his head. “I suppose I'll have to call Mrs. Riley then.”

 

Sherlock shrugged, his attention already tuned to another matter. “She already knows. She wants hard evidence to assuage her guilt when she files divorce papers. As I said, boring.”

 

He opened the door to the Baker street flat with a sigh. “I hope Mrs. Hudson hasn't forgotten to go to the shops today. There were no biscuits with tea this afternoon.”

 

***

 

“Don't fuss with it, Sherlock.”

 

“I'm not fussing. I'm un-tying it.”

 

Mary rolled her eyes and held out her hand, into which Sherlock deposited the necktie that had infuriated him the entire drive to Mycroft's function. His displeasure at being forced to attend was apparent, because Sherlock never liked being told to do anything by his elder brother. Mary and John had to strong-arm him into coming.

 

Private rooms of the Savoy had been reserved for a group of foreign delegates, and other such illustrious individuals. There was a visiting forensic analyst from the CIA, and Mycroft just wanted to show off his little brother. And far be it from Sherlock to do anything that would please the elder Holmes.

 

But as John had pointed out, they had no interesting cases at the moment, and Mary wanted a chance to dress up and drink expensive champagne.

 

“Sherlock, do pull that sour expression from your face.”

 

“Why?” Sherlock felt his hackles rise as he saw the superior look on Mycroft’s face. “You're smiling.”

 

“Special Analyst Gwen Murray is inside.” Mycroft strode ahead with an imperious click of his heels. “Do _try_ not to be beastly.”

 

Sherlock fixed an exaggerated, rather terrifying grin on his face. Watson gave him a look, a slow shake of his head, and he dropped it. “Am I doing it wrong?”

 

“Yes.”

 

***

 

Sherlock was finally in a good mood. Special Analyst Murray was a quick read, and after he had dissected her illicit affair with a subordinate, chronic migraines to an outdated eyeglass prescription, and an ulcer she had no knowledge of, Mycroft was so furious with him he had been banished to a separate room of the party.

 

He sank down gratefully into an open armchair and began playing a mind game he liked to think of as “food chain”. He imagined the few people mingling in this private room were deserted on an island and catalogued who would survive the longest, and by which means.

 

“Who is that?”

 

Sherlock looked up to see Watson hovering by him, and glanced over to see Mary chatting with a very distinguished looking gentleman. She had a carefree smile on her face, and when she noticed them she waved for them to come over. Watson rushed over a little too eagerly, and Sherlock trailed behind.

 

“John! Sherlock. This is Dr. Lecter, he's visiting from America.”

 

The man gave them a polite smile and offered his hand first to Watson. “Dr. Watson. Please excuse me from depriving you of the company of your charming wife.”

 

Watson shook his hand stiffly and stammered some sort of greeting. Dr. Lecter carried himself with an amount of grace and composure that was intimidating. He offered his hand to Sherlock next, which he grasped briefly before letting go. His hand was warm and dry, and spoke of a hidden strength.

 

“Dr. Lecter's here for-”

 

Sherlock interrupted Mary. “For the Behavioural Sciences Conference in two weeks.”

 

Dr. Lecter gave him a gentle smirk, but in no way looked surprised. Sherlock wondered if his reputation preceded him, even across the pond.

 

Watson looked embarrassed for him. “Sorry, he tends to do this.”

 

“You would be correct, Mr. Holmes.”

 

Sherlock hadn't introduced himself when they shook hands, so Dr. Lecter must have known of him already. He began in his rapid-fire manner, “You've just arrived from America. Your suit has been hand-ironed and has left a few creases by the seam. A suit like this needs to be dry-cleaned, so you haven’t had the time to settle in yet and made do with a hotel iron. Yet you show no signs of jet lag so you're a frequent flier.

 

“A practising physician doesn't tend to leave their workplace for longer than a weekend, and not frequently. You're too young to have entered even semi-retirement, and your phone has been turned off entirely, a luxury most physicians never allow themselves. You let others speak before you do, a habit of gauging reactions, and a psychiatrist with connections to the CIA, you gave a familiar nod to Special Analyst Murray when she passed a few minutes ago, would find themselves at the Behavioural Sciences conference.”

 

Dr. Lecter's expression hadn't changed in the slightest and he concluded for both of them. “Simple, really.”

 

Sherlock was taken aback. It was a childish and petty thought, but he realized that Dr. Lecter hadn’t been impressed. In fact, the polite smile on the other man’s face looked indulgent, like one praising the school work of a child.

 

Watson glanced from the unflappable doctor to Sherlock and must have sensed the growing tension, as he began shooting concerned looks at him.

 

Mary could sense it too as she let out an uncomfortable little laugh and asked, “What will you be doing at the conference, Dr. Lecter?”

 

Dr. Lecter’s eyes seemed to bore into Sherlock’s, and Sherlock realized with alarm that the man’s eyes were maroon. Contact lenses? No, they were natural. Genetic mutation of the pigment? Exposure to chemicals? The strange eyes then slid away and crinkled at the corners when they landed on Mary.

 

“I am giving a lecture on my recent work with the FBI in regards to a case that was concluded some months ago.”

 

“Oh. A gruesome case?”

 

“Very. He was known as the Minnesota Shrike.”

 

Mary smiled at Sherlock. “You two have something in common then. Sherlock consults for Scotland Yard.”

 

The smirk was still hovering there… _indulgent_. Sherlock felt a bubble of distaste beginning to well over inside of him as he turned that word over in his mind. “You can profile everyone in this room, can’t you?”

 

The maroon eyes flickered over to him and lingered. Sherlock felt the curious sensation of being watched by a hawk. He wanted to see if any of Dr. Lecter’s methods could be revealed in this moment, but the man’s face betrayed nothing. Nothing.

 

“Is that an invitation, Mr. Holmes?”

 

Sherlock spread his arms open in challenge. But then the smirk returned.

 

“I’m afraid I am very strict about keeping my professional interests out of social situations. I would not want to disrupt a party.”

 

Sherlock could feel the corners of his mouth tug and had to pay attention to keep a grimace from appearing on his face. A waiter walked by with a tray of champagne and he took a glass. He held it out to Dr. Lecter and his eyes narrowed slightly. It took him seven seconds and then he announced, “Sveikata.”

 

Dr. Lecter held up his own glass, white wine, and said, “Cheers.”

 

Watson’s eyebrows rose and he looked from Sherlock to Dr. Lecter before downing the rest of his drink in one swallow. He looked around desperately and called out too eagerly, “Greg! I didn’t know you were here.”

 

Detective Inspector Lestrade looked as if he had already taken advantage of the Savoy’s choice drink menu, and clapped a hand to Sherlock’s shoulder. “Gents. How’s our favourite psychopath?”

 

Sherlock grit his teeth and ground out, “High-functioning sociopath.”

 

Dr. Lecter swirled the wine in his glass before sipping, one eyebrow arching slightly. “I doubt that.”

 

Sherlock had the unpleasant sensation of feeling unbalanced yet again, and his mind raced to come up with some snappy retort. Lestrade began laughing, a little too loudly, and instead Sherlock decided he’d had enough and without so much as a “how-do-you-do” he strode away from them.

 

Mycroft had just entered the room to see him storm away, and glanced over to the small gathering he was making his exit from. In a low voice he said to Sherlock, “So you’ve met Dr. Lecter. I hope you didn’t annoy him.”

 

“I don’t like him.”

 

Mycroft snorted. “Of course you don’t. You’ve hated every psychiatrist you’ve ever met.”

 

***

 

Hannibal had recognized Sherlock Holmes the second the consulting detective entered the room. He had followed some of the detective’s cases from his subscription to English newspapers, and had perused Dr. Watson’s online blog. He would have attended Mycroft Holmes’ function regardless, given his interests with the London Symphony Orchestra, but he had hoped to see the younger Holmes in the flesh.

 

One could discern much of another person’s temperament from text, but it couldn’t compare to a personal interaction. He had politely reciprocated Dr. Mrs. Watson’s overtures in order to lay down his web, and had found her to be a surprisingly pleasant conversation partner. Courteous, engaging, and with a sense of humour.

 

The younger Holmes betrayed too much of his restlessness. He observed everyone in the room overtly. Hannibal could almost see the files click away in the man’s mind as he catalogued each of them.

 

When he walked over Hannibal could more accurately assess his height and weight. High cheekbones, a Roman nose, and a prominent Adam’s apple. Calluses on the fingertips and a turn of the wrists that suggested he played a stringed instrument. The violin, most likely. Hannibal amused himself with the idea of what kind of violinist Holmes was. Enough technical mastery to make a pleasing sound, but would work with dissonant tones and atypical bowing. The man liked to play the rebel; it was common amongst younger brothers.

When they spoke, Sherlock had tried to assert his intelligence immediately. To a stranger. To a doctor. An expert.

 

But of course. A genius in constant need of validation. With companions he was used to receiving admiration for his intellect from.

 

Holmes was certainly a fast analyst, but deducing Hannibal was present in London for the Behavioural Sciences Conference was a simple matter of observation. Hannibal was loathe to admit it to himself, but he was disappointed.

 

And Holmes didn’t know how to process rejection or authority to any degree. He had the emotional maturity of an adolescent, falling quickly to the role of someone who needed to be minded by his companions. Hannibal had grown even more disappointed. The man he had read about in the papers was becoming positively textbook.

 

Dr. Watson had been a little more interesting, a riddle that took him longer to solve than he anticipated. Military bearing, a field surgeon most likely, but diffident and mild-mannered. The discomfort of asserting his presence or to be ostentatious was common amongst English men of a certain generation, but there was a skirting of his gaze that spoke of some past trauma. He glanced to his more aggressive companion constantly, like a green soldier awaiting an order before he was allowed to act.

 

It was a co-dependent relationship with clearly defined roles. And then Hannibal realized upon further observation that who occupied which role deviated from initial observation. Dr. Watson was a physician with compassion, one would think a nurturer. But he had been a career soldier as well. So not a caregiver...a guardian. And then everything slot into place. Dr. Watson was the man with the true steel.

 

It amused Hannibal. It was like a crossword puzzle that required two passes to confirm rather than one. An interesting diversion.

 

“Sveikata.”

 

It was an obvious ploy from Holmes to engage Hannibal in a competition one more time, but finally Hannibal was intrigued by him. It was very few people who could tell he was Lithuanian without prompting. He had watched Holmes very carefully in the seconds it had taken the detective to reach that conclusion. He could see the barest outline of the man’s personal memory palace at work, and finally Hannibal found something that piqued his interest.

 

Holmes’ eyes had glazed over, his fingers twitching lightly at his sides, his lips moving soundlessly as he guided himself through his mental constructs. So, it was elaborate and in frequent use. In a different setting Hannibal would have wanted to prompt Holmes gently to see more of the man’s personal technique at work.

 

“High-functioning sociopath.”

 

Hannibal chuckled inwardly. _Not at all, Mr. Holmes_. Holmes only met people’s eyes with effort, his body language was relaxed only when he wasn’t being observed. He fidgeted and was a little erratic. Being called a psychopath stung him, got under his skin. He cared deeply for his two companions, the Watson’s, as when he was uncomfortable he leaned in closer to them and stood firmly in line with them instead of crossing that barrier. And when social pressure became too much he obeyed his flight instinct.

 

A very high-functioning autistic. Somewhere within the family branch of Aspberger’s syndrome. In fact, the younger Holmes reminded Hannibal strongly of Will Graham.

 

So despite himself, Hannibal found himself very intrigued indeed.

 

***

 

“How is Mycroft doing, dear? Has exercising helped him lose any weight?”

 

Sherlock scrolled impatiently through an online newspaper, digesting the information in seconds and moved onto the next of his thirty open tabs. “Incorrigible. Go away, Mrs. Hudson.”

 

She just tittered and placed a cup of tea on his desk. “In one of your moods again?”

 

The door swung open and Watson shook out his umbrella, Mary following closely behind. He pecked Mrs. Hudson on the cheek and accepted the offered cup of tea. “He’s just being difficult because we met someone smarter than him at the party.”

 

“He’s not smarter than me.”

 

Mrs. Hudson gave them a conspiratorial look and excused herself back to her flat. Watson sank down into his favourite armchair and savoured the annoyed look on Sherlock’s face. Mary glanced over at the articles open on Sherlock’s laptop to see Hannibal Lecter’s face emblazoned everywhere.

 

“Don’t know when to let go, do you?”

 

Sherlock held up a hand. “Quiet.” He then steepled his fingers underneath his chin and began to  construct a mental profile of Dr. Lecter.

 

Lithuanian, but with a varied accent. He could hear the soft French vowels, but the base had been from a different origin altogether. Cross-referencing geographical boundaries of the time period Dr. Lecter had been born in give or take a few years, and it was easy to narrow down from there. A world citizen, well-travelled. Private practice in Baltimore, very well respected. Leading expert on social exclusion. Patron of the arts, a celebrated member of the most prestigious galleries around the world and a director on the board of the Baltimore Philharmonic Opera. Cultured. Held his wineglass by the stem without any difficulty. Very proper. Moved with the grace of a fighter, but not with the rigidity of ex-military or special forces. Self-taught in martial arts and self-defence.

 

The man's control over himself and his appearance was the tightest Sherlock had ever witnessed. There was a certain amount every responsible psychiatrist possessed, but not to the almost monastic degree Lecter had. That meant he was keeping a secret. Something that could never once for a moment be allowed to slip...

 

...and Sherlock had the advantage in that he recognized Dr. Lecter. He had seen him once before Mycroft's party, and he was sure the sophisticated psychiatrist had no idea they had encountered each other before.

 

Sherlock's eyes squeezed tighter for a moment, his weight shifting from foot to foot as he mentally navigated down his mind-scape of London.

 

Through Vauxhall. Third alley off the main road. Pedestrian light that had a two-second intermittent flicker. The nightclub, two accessible fire exits, no back rooms. Main bouncer on weekends, former cage fighter, but a weak left knee. Awful beer, as Watson had observed.

 

A man in an expensive suit. Being propositioned by the “rude boy”.

 

A secret. Something hidden.

 

But not the kind of secret that context implied.

 

“John,” Sherlock suddenly barked, startling Watson, “what would a non-homosexual man be doing at a gay men's nightclub?”

 

Watson almost went purple in the face as Mary gave him a pointed look, and didn't try very hard to hold back her laughter. He said to Mary, “It was _him_! It was his mad idea! And not what you're thinking. _Stop it_.”

 

“You would blush harder if you knew what I was thinking, love.”

 

Sherlock snapped irritably, “Hush! John, quickly – what would a man be doing at a gay nightclub if he wasn't interested in a same-sex encounter?”

 

Watson shrugged his shoulders, his cheeks puffing up in a flummoxed sigh as he searched the air for an answer. Or for the fastest way for Sherlock to shut up. “Because his best friend is an obnoxious prat?”

 

Sherlock gave him a withering look. “Oh, John. It's not always about you.”

 

***

 

The Behavioural Sciences Conference had reserved a wing of suites in the 41 hotel for its foreign guests, but Sherlock had directed his taxi to a different establishment without needing to look at the guest list to know Dr. Lecter would have found rooms elsewhere.

 

A man with refined tastes in his clothing, and a classicist appreciation of the arts would revere culture and history. He would find rooms in a hotel that cherished that sense of tradition, not some fancy modern venue. A man so guarded about his privacy would not have taken rooms in the Savoy where Mycroft's function had been held.

 

Sherlock stepped through a side entrance in a borrowed orderly's uniform and quickly perused the reservations at the concierge's computer to confirm his suspicions that Dr. Lecter had a room at the Claridge's hotel. After that it was a simple matter of taking charge of an unattended trolley and making his way to the appropriate floor. Key access was an even simpler matter when the head of the hotel staff was a former, grateful client.

 

It was quarter past noon, and Dr. Lecter was sure to be in attendance at a lunch meeting with someone important from the Conference. Or perhaps the artistic director of the London Symphony Orchestra. He was a private individual who nevertheless needed to maintain an element of visibility. Sherlock estimated he had a secure half hour uninterrupted to search Lecter's rooms.

 

He brought the trolley into the room with him, leaving it in the hallway would have aroused suspicion, and placed a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the room door before locking it behind him.

 

The room was fastidiously neat, though Sherlock could tell Dr. Lecter had never allowed the hotel staff to come into clean. Staff left mistakes. There was not a single thing out of place in the room. The bed looked as if Dr. Lecter never slept in it, the sheets were still crisp.

 

Sherlock went through the bathroom first. An old-fashioned shaving kit, a brush, a  straight razor, powder. Expensive, old brands of colognes from Italy. Dr. Lecter had brought his own soaps, the hotel toiletries untouched, and a bottle of a powerful disinfectant. No pharmaceuticals or psychosomatic medication. That was curious. Every psychiatrist Sherlock had ever met needed the medication they prescribed their patients.

 

Sherlock searched the dresser, but found only a copy of the King James' bible. He went through Lecter's luggage instead to find an impressive collection of suits, jackets, and simple yet expertly tailored underthings folded carefully within sheet plastic dividers. The entire cost of the luggage contents could have paid the rent for 221B Baker Street for a year and a half. The books in Lecter's carry-on suitcase were beyond price. Sherlock felt a twinge of jealousy over some of the volumes. Lecter's personal library would make him seethe, if these were the texts that Lecter felt secure enough to travel with.

 

All still in luggage, but the conference was still two weeks away. A man like Lecter wouldn't abuse his clothing by living out of a suitcase where they would suffocate and crease. So the Claridges' room was very temporary housing.

 

Sherlock found a beautiful and well-maintained leather attache case. It had a number dial lock, but a complex one. Of course, a traditionalist like Lecter wouldn't use a digital passcode for his private work. And Sherlock wanted to see his lecture notes and presentation work for the conference.

 

Sherlock laid the case in the middle of the floor and then stood up. His right hand was raised slightly in the air as he brought up a mental image of the lock itself, isolating the different tumblers and mechanisms in his mind's eye. He wasn't going to force the lock, he wanted his intrusion to be discreet.

 

He ran through different patterns. Trigonometry, base ten and base twelve mathematics, the Fibbonaci numbers – no, too clinical.

 

Classical. Literature and history. Fine art and music.

 

The golden ratio for beauty. No, too many variables. Music...Sherlock began to hum to himself, his feet following the steps to a waltz as he moved about the room. A waltz was too obvious. Bach or Beethoven? Mozart or Wagner?

 

Three beautiful editions of treatises on Russian literature, Eastern European churches and a collection of poetry by Luka Fillipov that Lecter brought with him to London.

 

Sherlock smiled to himself. It would have to be the composer Rachmaninoff.

 

Date of birth and date of death. Too obvious. Sherlock considered the number of dials. He hummed again to himself as he ran through the composer's pieces. His fingers rapidly flicked the dials of the lock as he entered the different movements of a concerto, the changes in beat structure, the numeric values of his signature trills.

 

Each time the lock refused to open. Sherlock's brow furrowed slightly as he considered the  dials again.

 

Surely, that would be too simple...

 

He assigned each letter a numeric value with the simplest of alphanumeric codes and “R-A-C-H-M-A-N-I-N-O-F-F opened the case with a satisfying _click!_

 

Sherlock held up the lecture notes in triumph. He also found the case files for the Minnesota Shrike, which were disturbing, but fairly common for a serial murderer. The name “Will Graham” appeared several times, and Sherlock found the sections pertaining to Graham's involvement interesting. However, there was no time to give the attention to the case files he would have liked at present moment.

 

Sherlock held each page up to the light so he could observe it clearly, and then created a room for it in his memory palace. He would go back to it later.

 

He placed the files back into the case in the order he found them. His fingers examined the lining of the case and he was rewarded with a slight thickness that revealed a hidden lining. Gently he removed what felt small in between his fingertips, and brought up a business card. Lecter's business card.

 

Sherlock turned the card to see a handwritten note on the back. The indentation and crisp lines of a fountain pen. The beautiful penmanship of a calligrapher.

 

_9:00PM_

_1 Hr._

_S. Holmes_

 

Sherlock felt a chill race down his spine. It was an appointment card for him.

 

***

 

“A palate cleanser, sir?”

 

Hannibal looked at the small spoon of mint ice offered to him, and waved it away as if the maitre'd had insulted him. “No. Thank you. I would prefer not to interfere with the taste of the wine.”

 

Mycroft dismissed the man as well without partaking, but with a kinder smile. He was enjoying the Mouton-Rothschild 1946 under Hannibal's recommendation, and it was the perfect end note to the meal he had just finished. One of the first things Mycroft had learned about Dr. Lecter was the man knew a good vintage. It could only have been made more perfect if he still partook in a post-meal cigarette.

 

But he'd quit, save for the Christmas tobacco he shared with his brother, and he would have offended his guest. Hannibal had a sensitive nose and an aversion to unhealthy habits.

 

“So Dr. Graham is still held in suspicion?”

 

Hannibal was the type of man who never let his composure slip an inch, but his eyes seemed to shutter at the mention of that sorry business. “It is an unfortunate, and personally troubling matter. Will is confused and deeply distraught by these events. He cannot seem to recall his own actions.”

 

The corner of Hannibal's mouth threatened to tug, and his expression grew a millimetre more sad. “I confess I feel a little irresponsible for leaving Baltimore at this time.”

 

Mycroft nodded, leaning back slightly in his chair as he sipped at his wine, allowing Hannibal a private moment with his own thoughts. The case hadn't received much attention in the English media, but an FBI specialist being the prime suspect of a string of grisly murder cases was the sort of trouble he was meant to keep abreast of. Lord knows his own brother had aroused similar suspicions in the past.

 

“I understand you were close to Dr. Graham. My commiserations.”

 

Hannibal nodded slightly, his gaze elsewhere. “He was my patient and I was meant to ensure his mental well-being. I cannot overlook my responsibility in this matter.”

 

“The blame you mean?” Mycroft scoffed. “With Jack Crawford under review as well it is going to turn into a bloodbath of sharks. Better to let them cannibalize each other and keep the attention away from yourself.”

 

Hannibal smirked slightly, but didn't argue. He merely lifted his wineglass to Mycroft in thanks and took a thoughtful sip.

 

“Things are going to get very interesting at Quantico if Crawford takes the fall for this. I assume Dr. Graham will be mounting a defence for his inability to account for his actions?”

 

“Dr. Bloom is pushing for that, yes.”

 

Mycroft mentally reviewed the most likely candidates to replace Crawford, and it summoned another grimace. “A bloody mess.”

 

Mycroft shook his head and noticed Hannibal watching him with a look of polite amusement. He smiled a little self-consciously. “Pardon my woolgathering. I'm afraid I've turned the tone of our conversation rather morbid. How are you enjoying your stay here?”

 

Hannibal accepted the apology with quiet grace and his eyes flickered to their view of the London streets. For once it wasn't drizzling, and there was a happy glow of sunlight that touched the buildings. “I am very comfortable, I have always enjoyed England. Even if it is just for business.”

 

Mycroft laughed knowingly. “I know you keep a very busy schedule, Dr. Lecter, but you never neglect the gallery or the theatre. You will be attending the Symphony's season review?”

 

Hannibal nodded in confirmation. His fingertip skimmed along the delicate rim of his glass, a touch that was contemplative and featherlight, so as not to make an offensive sound. “A touch of civility amidst more tedious matters is always welcome. I enjoyed meeting some of your acquaintances.”

 

“Ah, Sherlock. I hope he wasn't too boorish to you.” Mycroft's phone vibrated in his pocket and he took a quick glance at the screen. It was an SMS from his younger brother. “Speak of the devil. Excuse me.”

 

_Send all internal reports on H.Lecter – SH_

 

_No. - MH_

 

_Not a request - SH_

 

_Tread carefully – MH_

 

Mycroft turned off his phone and swiftly returned it to his pocket. “He can be a little difficult sometimes.”

 

“Not at all. I enjoyed meeting your younger brother, Mr. Holmes. I found our encounter quite enlightening.”

 

Mycroft chuckled. “Well that is a very polite way of putting it. I suppose given your line of work you'd find him interesting. He rather just annoys the rest of us.”

 

Hannibal had a mysterious smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “Perhaps you're right. It is an occupational hazard to be attracted to certain kinds of personalities. I think...I would like to have him for dinner.”


	2. Chapter 2

 

Unusual empathic abilities. The ability to enter the mind of a killer, and then discern his motives and behaviour. Garrett Jacob Hobbs. A gunshot. Then nine more. The beginning of the end.

 

Sherlock looked up and realized there was nothing but a white blankness surrounding him. A drawer was open, and the case files for every killer Will Graham had a hand in catching were spread before him. Sherlock stepped away from the grisly snapshots and wondered at the unrecognizable room around him. The part of his memory palace that contained the case files for Will Graham was empty and clinical.

 

There was a crack on one of the walls. Sherlock titled his head curiously and walked over to it. He ran his fingers over it and wondered what it  could mean.

 

Will Graham. Celebrated behavioural analyst. Copycat killer of the monster he murdered.

 

A crack in the memory palace.

 

_Beep! Beep! Beep!_

 

Sherlock came to, felt a curious tug somewhere behind his navel, and when his eyes opened he was in the backseat of a taxi. He turned off the alarm on his phone, one of the sound cues he used when perusing his mind palace, and saw that he had arrived at Claridge's.

 

Sherlock brought out his phone again when he was on Hannibal Lecter's floor. His thumb tapped absently on its case as he began and scrapped a dozen text messages to send to Watson.

 

_Alert Lestrade if no response in an hour-_

 

_Alert Mycroft if-_

 

_If no response in two hours-_

 

He heard the strains of music. Prokofiev's Violin Concerto in D major, played on a gramophone. It sent a shiver down his spine and he pocketed his phone without sending any message. He found himself outside Hannibal's door, listening to the last strains of the movement, his feet obeying some primal calling.

 

Sherlock felt like he was entering a dark cave when he pushed open the door. It was not locked, and swung open to invite him in.

 

The rooms looked much warmer and comfortable than it had earlier that day. A gramophone was positioned on top of the dresser beside a tray of a couple wine bottles and glasses. Lecter was seated in a plush armchair, a sketchbook resting on his lap as he looked out the window, his hand moving against the paper on its own. In his free hand his fingers were moving delicately to the soft strains of music.

 

There was a second chair across from Lecter's, empty and waiting.

 

“This is better room service than I've ever managed.”

 

Lecter didn't turn to look at him, but his lips quirked. “I tip well.”

 

The graphite drawing was precise and rich with tiny details of the outer buildings that spoke of Lecter's excellent night vision. The tip of his pinky made a final smudge of shading and then Lecter closed the sketchbook, placing it on the nightstand table beside him. He pulled out a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit to wipe his hands with, and gestured to the empty chair across from him.

 

“Please, have a seat.”

 

There was a pregnant pause as the two men watched each other carefully, and then Sherlock lowered himself into the chair stiffly. He didn't remove his scarf or undo his coat, and could tell Lecter noticed, but refrained from commenting. Instead, Dr. Lecter rose from his seat, lifted the needle off the gramophone, and then returned to his chair in one fluid motion. There wasn't an ounce of energy wasted.

 

“I got your card.”

 

Lecter held out a hand. Sherlock reached into his pocket and brought out the business card with his appointment written on it. Lecter took it by the tips of his fingers, glanced at it briefly and then placed it aside.

 

“You kept your appointment.”

 

“You knew I would come.”

 

Lecter shifted so that he could rest one arm on the chair and placed an inquisitive finger against his temple. “There can be no underestimating your curiosity.”

 

Sherlock crossed one leg over the other and leaned back, steepling his hands together and resting them underneath his chin. “And of your curiosity?”

 

Lecter had a slight drawl in his accent, and Sherlock felt as if by voice alone the doctor was trying to coax something out of him. “I am offering you a courtesy, Mr. Holmes. Not my curiosity.”

 

Sherlock felt as if he and the doctor were on opposite ends of a see-saw. The platform underneath both of them was swaying slightly, the balance shifting gently between both of them. One hard push and it would swing wildly into one's favour. Or knock the other one off.

 

He smiled softly. This was the most exciting thing to have happened in weeks. “Shall we begin?”

 

Dr. Lecter nodded and pulled out a slim moleskin notebook from the inner breast pocket of his suit. He opened it to an empty page and brought out a fountain pen. His eyes never once left Sherlock's face, as with his drawing, he didn't need to look down to take notes.

 

One hard push.

 

“Tell me about Will Graham.”

Dr. Lecter smirked lightly, his eyes were unfathomable. “Tell me what you know of Dr. Graham.”

 

Sherlock lightly tapped the underside of his chin with his fingers and began. “A criminal profiler working in an unofficial capacity with the FBI. He assisted in the arrests of several serial murderers – you seem to have a high propensity for them in America. Received a lot of attention for the death of Garret Jacob Hobbs. He is now the primary suspect for the murder of Abigail Hobbs, Cassie Boyle and others.”

 

“Surely you know more than that.”

 

Sherlock licked his lower lip and nodded. “He falls on the spectrum of psychopaths which is why he has never been instated as an official FBI agent. Introspective, unstable, obsessive. Lives alone, doesn't take care of himself. More comfortable with animals than people. He takes in strays. I'd say dogs.”

 

A private look of amusement crossed Dr. Lecter's face. “Will has taken in quite a number of dogs over the years.”

 

“He doesn't seem like a cat person,” Sherlock agreed, and then asked quickly, “Tell me how he catches them.”

 

Sherlock noticed that Dr. Lecter hadn't written a single thing down in his notebook, but the tip of the pen swayed gently in the air, always poised. Dr. Lecter regarded him quietly for a moment before speaking. “Will has an unusual empathic ability. He can assume the personality of the ones he hunts. Discern their motives from an interior space.”

 

“He frightens the people he works with. And himself.”

 

“Do you frighten the people you work with?”

 

Dr. Lecter's gaze had turned hawk-like again, and Sherlock felt pinned down in the armchair. He kept himself relaxed, however, as he knew he was in an interview where his body language was being dissected just as much as the words he chose.

 

“I frustrate them.”

 

“Do you want to make people afraid or frustrated with you?”

 

Sherlock laughed, his hands unfolding from underneath his chin to rest in his lap. “Dr. Lecter, please. I was enjoying myself. Don't bore me now.”

 

Finally Sherlock saw a glimmer of something in Dr. Lecter's face which broke up the stoic mask. It was like a ripple of coolness over a dark pool of water.

 

“Tell me about Dr. Watson.”

 

 

Sherlock knew he was close to betraying the _frisson_ of panic that ran through him. Smoothly, he rearranged his arms onto the rests of the chair, never once allowing his gaze to leave Dr. Lecter's. There could be nothing gained from betraying such an overt sign of weakness. He used Dr. Lecter's own words back at him.

 

“Tell me what you know about Dr. Watson.”

 

Dr. Lecter placed his pen down on top of the notebook page and steepled his hands underneath his chin in imitation of Sherlock's usual thinking pose. Sherlock felt a thrill of excitement and amusement at this. _Quid-pro quo_.

 

“Dr. Watson is a man dealing with some past trauma that originated from his time in the war. He copes with it admirably. Though he is self-effacing and tends to follow another's lead, rather than being a defensive mechanism this is a guard for his true nature.”

 

Sherlock watched Dr. Lecter intently. The man's silken words were making him nervous and he kept his face very still. “What do you think his true nature is?”

 

Dr. Lecter gave him a hint of a smile, his own body language fluid and relaxed. Almost dismissive. “Mr. Holmes, I am a psychiatrist. Not a dealer in secrets. You could always ask Dr. Watson yourself. You obviously care for him an immeasurable amount.”

 

“Don't patronize me.”

 

Dr. Lecter's eyebrow rose a millimetre, his expression still cool and polite. “I wouldn't dream of it, Mr. Holmes. That would be unspeakably rude.”

 

Sherlock had to shift the focus back to Dr. Lecter. He had never met a man as slippery and skilled in casual evasion. “Is Will Graham your patient or your friend?”

 

“Both. Is Dr. Watson your friend?”

 

“He's my best friend.”

 

Dr. Lecter considered him for a brief moment, and without a hint of judgement said, “He is your only friend.”

 

Sherlock said nothing.

 

“How does that make you feel, Mr. Holmes?”

 

“Sherlock. Mr. Holmes is my elder brother.”

 

Dr. Lecter leaned back in his chair, every muscle relaxed. He reminded Sherlock of a cat, self-satisfied and graceful. Sherlock was unnerved, and he knew this was a ploy of Dr. Lecter's, but nevertheless wondering what made Dr. Lecter feel so self-assured about their encounter was unnerving.

 

“Why does Will Graham name you as a suspect in these murder cases?”

 

Something flickered behind Dr. Lecter's eyes then. Anyone would have thought it was guilt or sadness. Sherlock couldn't be certain.

 

“I can't discuss an open investigation in great detail, Sherlock. I can say that it has been distressing.”

 

“I don't think a man like you could ever feel distressed.”

 

A slightly offended look finally penetrated the cool mask on Dr. Lecter's face. “I think you know very little of men like me.”

 

Sherlock leaned forward slightly, feeling that gentle sway of the see-saw beneath them. The gentle rocking of power. “I may surprise you. I know quite a bit.”

 

Dr. Lecter smirked again, though there was a coldness to it rather than an absence of warmth. “I'm sure.”

 

“Do you think Will Graham murdered those people?”

 

Their eyes locked and the growing tension made Sherlock's hair stand on end. It was like watching molasses ooze gently out of a jar, watching the dark wave creep forward little by little, the weight of it suspended in the air. Not knowing the exact moment it would spill forth in a thick skein. Sherlock waited with baited breath for Dr. Lecter to betray himself, to say something, to give him the next clue...

 

And then Dr. Lecter raised his arm towards him, in one smooth motion shook back the cuff of his suit, glanced at his watch, shook the cuff back down and rested his arm back on the chair. “Your hour is up, Sherlock. I'm afraid I have other arrangements to attend to now.”

 

_Damn the man._ Sherlock felt the singular frustration of having to leave a puzzle half-finished. He may have grimaced outwardly, but found he didn't care. “What do I owe you, Doctor?”

 

Dr. Lecter rose from his chair and Sherlock followed suit. Dr. Lecter walked him over to the door and pulled it out for him. “I require no reparation for this time, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock grinned mirthlessly, his tone a little sardonic. “Not monetary compensation, anyway. Money is just vulgar, isn't it?”

 

The statement was pointed, and Dr. Lecter acknowledged it with a graceful tilt of his head. It was the obvious moment for Sherlock to bid Dr. Lecter a goodnight and exit, but he lingered by the doorway, pushing his welcome. Dr. Lecter looked at him expectantly and Sherlock let him wait, placing a thoughtful look on his face like he was searching for the right way to word a question.

 

Just as Dr. Lecter was about to ask him to speak, Sherlock then stepped away from the door and walked briskly down the hallway without a word. He heard the door close behind him after twelve seconds, and smiled to himself.

 

Twelve seconds Dr. Lecter spent considering him, which meant the game was still afoot.

 

***

 

“I'll get it-”

 

“No, no, I've got it-”

 

“John-”

 

Watson and Mrs. Watson bumped into each other awkwardly as they tried to answer the door. Watson gave in as Mary squeezed by him and gave him a playful smack on the arm. When the door opened she signed for the package and they both looked at it curiously. The brown paper crinkled delicately under her fingers and she brought it into their kitchen.

 

“Who's it from? Is there a card?”

 

Mary hunted for a card as Watson undid the paper to find a bouquet of white flowers inside. They were pristine, with velvety petals and a cheerful yellow bud.

 

“Is this meant for you or me?”

 

Mary examined a small white card. “They're from Dr. Lecter, thanking us for a pleasant conversation at Mycroft's party.”

 

Mary laughed when she saw the annoyed look on Watson's face. She hunted for a suitable vase in their cupboards as Watson glared at the flowers as if they had offended him.

 

“That's a bit odd, don't you think?”

 

Mary transferred the flowers into a vase and placed them near a windowsill. “Chivalry in this age? Yes, it is very odd.”

 

Watson huffed a little irritably, shoving his hands into his pockets. “What kind of man sends flowers to people he's barely met once?”

 

Mary placed her hand in Watson's to placate him, resting her head on his shoulder. “Maybe he's a fan of yours, John. Heard about all of your exploits and secretly admires you.”

 

Watson finally smiled, nudging her gently. “What kind of flowers are these anyway?”

 

“Trilliums.”

 

***

 

“Ah, Jesus...”

 

DI Lestrade turned his head briefly away from the crime scene, not because he was squeamish, but because the smell emanating from the corpse was horrendous. They had received a call about a smell coming from a small upstairs flat above a shop. The entire upper level was now taped off as a crime scene because they had found the tenant sitting at his coffee table, and in late-stage decomposition.

 

His innards were also outside of his body.

 

Anderson's face was screwed up in concentration as he was arm-deep inside the torso of the young man, his tongue wandering outside his mouth as he excavated deeper.

 

“Keep your mouth shut, Anderson. You aren't at a fucking buffet lunch.”

 

“His kidney's are missing.” Anderson pulled out his arm with a disgusting _squelch_ as more dark brown liquid slopped to the floor, and his plastic sleeved arm dripped more of the foul soup. “We'll know more after autopsy.”

 

Donovan wrinkled her nose with disgust. “Black market organ trade, do you think?”

 

Lestrade couldn't tear his eyes away from the corpse seated before them. The young man had sandy blonde hair, fine features and hot pink lipstick smeared all over his mouth. He was wearing tight leather pants that looked grotesque once decomposition had set in and distended the body with gasses.

 

“Why would they bring his body back here if they just wanted to take some organs?” Lestrade's mouth turned downwards. “He's been posed.”

 

He could already tell Donovan was rolling her eyes and ignored her. Anderson looked up at him a little eagerly. “Are you going to call Holmes and Watson?”

 

“Finally taken a shine to that bastard, have you?” Lestrade snapped as he shoved his hand into his pocket and searched for his phone. He was just annoyed because Anderson was right. This had the stink of “serial murderer” all over it, and those were the cases that made his gut twist around. No matter if he looked the fool, he wanted all the help he could get if he was hunting for a genuine monster.

 

“Great. We're giving the psycho another toy to play with.”

 

“ _Thank you_ , Donovan.” Lestrade shot her a pointed glare. “Go tell Molly she's going to need to lay down some plastic on the ground for this one.”

 

***

 

Sherlock taped the last picture onto his wall and stepped back to survey his handiwork. 221B Baker Street looked as ever like a madman's den, only this time there were equal parts printed pictures of some of the finest art of the ages alongside the usual grisly murder scene photos.

 

Hannibal Lecter was a riddle, and Sherlock was sure the doctor thought the same of him. They were like two wolves circling around each other, sniffing each other out, trying to see if the other was 'like' or 'not like'.

 

Lecter was a man obsessed with politeness and rudeness. Sherlock had felt a bit of a savage thrill when he baited the doctor the few times during their 'session'. It was the only time Sherlock felt he had successfully provoked a genuine reaction from Lecter, that Lecter hadn't anticipated. It was as if the slick doctor had a 'rudeness reaction', something he couldn't control. The only other time Sherlock felt like he had gotten close to that was when Will Graham entered the conversation. But even then there was a layer, like a translucent curtain, Lecter had in place between himself and the truth.

 

A man who was obsessed with control...which was apparent in how he dressed, moved and spoke. Even in how he watched someone. And Lecter reacted with a bit of superior smugness anytime he encountered someone who didn't have that same measure of self-control, as Sherlock had seen quite clearly when he baited the doctor. No wonder Mycroft got along well with him.

 

Sherlock paced around the flat, surrounded by the pictures of opulence and prestige, and of death and murder. Lecter was a man of culture...of civility...

 

Sherlock realized he was lifting his weight slightly by the balls of his feet and he hit upon it.

 

Lecter was a man elevated above the rest.

 

Sherlock immediately sat down in his chair, his hands steepled underneath his chin. A man with this amount of control, who prized himself in being better than most, who consulted with the FBI on criminal profiles, and only the sickest of minds would do...what then were his interests and relations to the unfortunate Dr. Graham?

 

It was obvious that any psychiatrist would be intrigued by a serial murderer, especially one as damaged as Graham, but what set Will Graham apart from Garret Jacob Hobbs, or Dr. Gideon?

 

Sherlock was up on his feet again, his fingers now placed over his temples as he navigated his mind palace.

 

Dr. Abel Gideon, another psychiatrist who attacked Dr. Frederick Chilton after being convinced that he was the Chesapeake Ripper. From all accounts he was intelligent, educated, well-spoken, charming...

 

And yet Lecter's laser-vision gaze rested solely on Will Graham. The broken, nervous young man who kept stray dogs because he couldn't interact comfortably with people. Who ran away from any form of intimate attachment, Sherlock could gauge that easily from Dr. Alana Bloom's statements on Graham that there was a past doomed romance there, and pointed the finger instead to Lecter.

 

Lecter was playing Prokofiev when Sherlock came for his appointment. He knew Sherlock would go searching through his rooms and hid that card inside a case with “Rachmaninoff” as its lock.

 

Sherlock's fingers moved along the strings to an invisible violin in the air as he ran through his mental databanks of the two composers; there was no time to grab his own instrument at the moment. Prokofiev was an influence on Rachmaninoff, the similarities and further development of those same ideas could be seen in the composer's work, adaptation evolution...

 

A mentor and student relationship. Lecter didn't consider Will Graham a friend. Not really. He looked at the young man with the frightening abilities and dangerous ideas as a student. As someone to guide, to nurture, to incubate that frightening and dark aspect of the mind.

 

_Does Lecter want to mentor me?_

 

What kind of psychiatrist wanted not only to dissect Graham's particular capabilities but cultivate them?

 

_Lecter falls on the spectrum._

 

Sherlock looked around inside his mind palace. The room he had created for Will Graham and the case files for the Minnesota Shrike were still distressingly white. He had no point of reference really to navigate this space, save for the snapshots of the case files his eidetic memory had recorded.

 

The crack on the wall was still there, and it seemed to have grown larger.

 

What did that mean? Was there a fault in his memory? Some detail he had overlooked but couldn't recall?

 

_Lecter would know._

 

“Sherlock!”

 

Sherlock stepped closer to the crack, running his fingers over it again and trying to peer deeper inside the darkness. _Lecter would know...expert on social exclusion...falls somewhere on the spectrum...prizes intelligence...wasn't surprised at all by my methods or process..._

 

_Lecter uses a mind palace too._

 

“Sherlock, for godssake – my hands are full, open the bloody door!”

 

Sherlock yanked the door to Baker street open without tearing his gaze away from the collection of pictures on his wall or acknowledging Watson, who was struggling with some shopping bags.

 

“Can't you get Mrs. Hudson to do this-”

 

“She keeps reminding me she isn't my housekeeper and refuses. What does Lestrade want?”

 

Sherlock waved impatiently at the startled look on Watson's face. “One would think you would have gotten used to this by now.”

 

Watson placed the groceries on the kitchen counter. “One would think. He wants us to come down for an autopsy.”

 

“I'm busy.”

 

Watson looked at the new collage of images around Baker street and let out little 'huff' of surprise. “Do you already have a new case?”

 

“No.”

 

Watson went up to the wall and examined the pictures of the Hobbs case more closely. He didn't hide his distaste at the grisly images and shot a suspicious look at Sherlock. “This doesn't have anything to do with that Dr. Lecter chap, does it?”

 

Sherlock rooted through the shopping bags, hoping to find the tea he liked. If John had done his shopping, he wanted to placate him, which meant he needed to convince Sherlock to go along with an idea which was usually Lestrade's, and that meant bribery tea.

 

“He's a funny one. Sent Mary and I flowers the other day, of all things.”

 

“What?”

 

Watson smirked at him. “Got your attention now, do I?”

 

Sherlock abandoned the bags with haste, coming over and shaking Watson by the shoulders. “Describe everything. Do you still have the flowers? How many? What kind? Was there a note?”

 

Watson turned Sherlock around and steered him towards the door. “Come with me down to Scotland Yard and you can take the sodding flowers afterwards if you want.”

 

“How many bodies?” Sherlock grabbed his coat and wrestled with his scarf.

 

“Just the one.”

 

Sherlock looked at him indignantly. “What was unusual about it? Where was it found? How come we weren't at the crime scene?”

 

Watson held up his hands in mock-surrender. “I don't know any bloody more than you do except that Lestrade thinks there's something funny about it.”

 

“Did they take enough pictures? They never do.” Sherlock was already storming out the door at his relentless pace and Watson had to struggle to keep up. “Why does Gavin want my help if he won't let me _work_ properly?”

 

Watson rolled his eyes, but couldn't hide the smothered amusement in his voice as he fished out his own key and locked the door. “Maybe because you keep calling him Gavin.”

 

***

 

“I've only done a preliminary exam. Left the body as untouched as possible since it was moved until you could see it.”

 

“Thank you, Molly.” Sherlock lifted the cover and pulled it down to the man's knees so he could better see the split open torso.

 

Watson's face scrunched up as the stench in the room tripled. Lestrade handed him a pot of menthol rub, which he smeared a small amount gratefully under his nose. He had no doubt seen and smelt worse during his service in the war, but that had been years ago and he had adjusted to normal civilian life. Enjoying the comforts of a home and loving wife had softened him a little.

 

Lestrade didn't offer it to Sherlock, because he always refused. The sense of smell was just as vital to him in investigation as was his other senses. He ran a gloved fingertip along the large gash that split the young man from collarbone to stomach. It was clean and precise.

 

“It looks to have been done with a scalpel.”

 

Molly Hooper nodded in agreement, drawing his attention to the chest and arms. “All of the ribs are broken, all clean. The shoulder's are both broken too, right at the joint. Otherwise there aren't any other injuries.”

 

“Bruising?”

 

Lestrade looked a little surprised as he nodded. “Around the ankles.”

 

Sherlock nodded as he shone a small penlight into the man's exposed chest cavity. “He was restrained. And conscious while he was cut. There's no sign of further trauma within the body, so we have a killer with working knowledge of anatomy and surgery who removed this man's organs, but took the care to do so while he was awake.”

 

Sherlock straightened and snapped off the penlight. “Show me the pictures of the scene. And give me the flat key.”

 

Lestrade handed him a manila folder of images. Sherlock gave him a pointed look, and then he handed over the key as well with an irritated, “It's still being processed by forensics.”

 

“Why the makeup?” Watson motioned over his own lips to indicate the smeared pink lipstick.

 

Sherlock bent over the man's face and sniffed near the mouth. He then pressed a fingertip lightly to the lips and smeared the rouge between his thumb and forefinger. “It's a line of pink from Smashbox. Popular amongst certain male performers.”

 

Watson's brow furrowed. “Hate crime, you reckon?”

 

Sherlock considered the young man, gutted like a fish, lying on the cold examiner's table and slowly shook his head. “No. This is clinical. Violent crimes against homosexual men have always been crimes of passion. But this man has had no trauma to his genitals or his face. The organs were taken, but with no discernible means of profit or gain. So they've been taken as a trophy.”

 

Lestrade's voice came out as a harsh croak. He'd been awake and working for over twenty-four hours. “So we do have a serial killer loose in London. Targeting gay men.”

 

Sherlock's head tilted as he considered that, but he offered no confirmation or denial apart from a cryptic, “We'll see.”

 

“Did he already have that lipstick on him, or did the killer paint it on?”

 

Sherlock felt a small surge of pride at Watson, who was gazing up at him inquisitively. “Finally asking the right questions, John.”

 

Watson rolled his eyes, but looked secretly pleased. “Well?”

 

“Don't know,” was Sherlock's brisk answer. He stripped off his latex gloves and tossed them into the biohazard waste container. “Have to see the flat to learn more.”

 

He clapped his hands together and rubbed them with excitement. “Come along, John. We have a killer to catch. Goodnight, Lestrade. Molly.”

 

He waited until they exited the swinging doors of autopsy to mutter to Watson, “But first I want a look at those flowers you were sent.”

 

***

 

Hannibal's heels clicked against the rain-spattered road as he strolled leisurely with an umbrella to keep the worst of the downpour off him. He could move silently if he wanted to, but there was a man trailing him and he wanted his would-be stalker to keep up. Despite the dulling affects of the rain, Hannibal had still been able to smell the man ten minutes ago. One of the unwashed masses of vagrants that haunted every city.

 

The homeless man must have tailed other people before, because he stuck to the side streets and alleyways instead of the amateur's mistake of trying to follow someone in a crowd. Still, he was ungainly and had no idea Hannibal knew he existed. Hannibal waited patiently until an alleyway presented itself to his left-hand side, and his stalker was less than twenty feet away. Then he moved.

 

In a few long strides Hannibal had the man's collar bunched in his fist, and dragged him further down the alley. The man cried out in surprise, he hadn't expected Hannibal to move so quickly, and struggled uselessly against Hannibal's iron grip.

 

“You've been following me.” It wasn't a question.

 

“Get your bloody hands off me, I don't know you.”

 

Hannibal smirked. “No, you don't.”

 

The man stunk of spilt beer, stale urine and cheap tobacco, but he didn't have the familiar signs of alcoholism most transients had. He was alert and afraid. His fear poured off of him, even as he blustered that he had been minding his own business. Hannibal had once been accused of being able to smell fear, but that simply wasn't true. It was biologically impossible for a human. Hannibal was merely observant and when people were genuinely afraid, he knew every telltale sign.

 

“Listen to me carefully,” Hannibal began, and the man's eyes widened, “even though you are an unfortunate, you have much better things to do with your time than try to follow me. I encourage you to think of one now and act upon it.”

 

“Look, mate, I was just walking. Wasn't asking to get bloody hauled around and-”

 

“Shhhh,” Hannibal held a finger to his lips and shook his head. “Be on your way.”

 

He spoke it like a command, and the man instantly shut up. Hannibal let go of his collar, and he backed away a step without tearing his eyes away from Hannibal, and then pelted down the alley.

 

Hannibal picked up his umbrella where he had dropped it, shook away some of the street's detritus that clung to it, and made his way back to the main road.

 

He didn't think it was a coincidence that the homeless man had been tailing him as he made his way to 221B Baker Street. Hannibal had noticed the light from a phone screen through the man's pocket.

 

So he didn't knock on the door and instead pushed it open to find it unlocked. He had been expected after all.

 

There was a short flight of cramped stairs that went down to a basement and up a couple more floors. He could smell cleaning product, old cooking smells, and a ladies' shampoo and hair products. It was a brand that was unfashionable amongst younger women, so Hannibal guessed there was an older live-in landlady. But she wasn't home right now. The scents were faint and he couldn't hear movement from any other floor.

 

There was the strain of a violin playing and Hannibal allowed himself a private smile in the stairwell before knocking on the door.

 

“Come in.”

 

Sherlock Holmes was standing by his window, his back turned to the door. He was wearing some hideous dressing robe over his clothing, and was swaying slightly as he teased notes from his violin. It had a distracted air to it, as if he were chasing a melody half-remembered, but his fingering was excellent and his bowing confident. Hannibal shut the door gently behind him and allowed his eyes to flutter close for a moment as he took in the music.

 

“Please, have a seat.” Sherlock lifted the bow from the violin, grasping it around the neck and gestured to a vacant armchair. He flopped down onto what Hannibal assumed was his favourite seat, placing the bow down carelessly and began to pluck the violin like it was a ukelele.

 

Hannibal must have looked incredibly offended by the display as Sherlock Holmes laughed, his fingers absently plucking. “Unorthodox, yes, but I find it helps me think.”

 

“It affects the sound over time,” Hannibal's eyes raked over the body of the violin and found it wanting, “and you don't maintain your instrument properly.”

 

Holmes pressed an ear to the body and began to tune the strings. He looked at Hannibal curiously as he plucked a note from the A string, and Hannibal motioned subtly with his hand until it was perfectly tuned. Sherlock smirked at him curiously. “You have perfect pitch.”

 

“It can be both a blessing and a curse. Especially when some concert musicians neglect the craft of what they do.”

 

The younger Holmes went back to plucking an errant tune from his violin, and asked casually, “Or take it a step too far? Like the music store owner Tobias Budge. What an unfortunate name. He attacked you and you killed him.”

 

Hannibal's gaze was still focused on the fingers manipulating the violin strings. “I defended myself, and his death was an accident. You've been reading up on me, Mr. Holmes.”

 

“Sherlock.” He finally stopped playing with the violin strings and instead held it by the neck and rested it in his lap, picking up the bow and moving it in the air as if he were conducting his thoughts. “The stag bust that you had in your office could not have fallen into the position it was found on the floor of your office. There were no scuff marks or dents found on the wall it was placed against, so the cabinet wasn't pushed or rocked against it. There was no external momentum that would have been required to generate the amount of force to topple a bust of that weight.”

 

Holmes then looked directly at Hannibal with an expression of mild admiration, and in a matter-of-fact way remarked, “You must be very strong to have lifted it.”

 

Hannibal leaned back into the armchair and rested one hand with two fingers against his temple. Holmes had orchestrated this to feel like their previous meeting, though perhaps this time with the roles reversed. That was fair, he was in Holmes' kingdom now, and the monarch was greeting him in his hideous robe and with his peculiarities on display. Though what kind of persona he was presenting, and what Hannibal could see were two different things.

 

“Our body is a temple, as the saying goes, and if we are careful and respectful in its maintenance, it rewards us. We have a responsibility to ourselves, something that many neglect.”

 

Holmes tapped his bow against the armrest of his chair as he considered that. “Well the man was a proven serial killer, so I suppose good riddance. But why did you hide your actions from the FBI?”

 

“Are you familiar with the sensation of blind panic?”

 

Holmes smirked at him, indulgently, and Hannibal chuckled inwardly. He wasn't certain the detective was mirroring his own expressions back at him, but he was at least sure it was possible. “Dr. Lecter, I would bet my life that you are not the kind of man to ever experience blind panic.”

 

Hannibal let a small, dark smile grace his features. “You would be correct.”

 

The violin bow was pointed in his general direction, still describing some invisible cursive in the air. “Why did Tobias Budge seek you out?”

 

“He was a companion of my patient. He killed him first. I suspect it was a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

 

Holmes shook his head immediately, rejecting that notion. “No. If Budge had just wanted to kill Franklin he would have invited him somewhere convenient and private. He came to your office, he wanted to see _you_. Why?”

 

Hannibal crossed one leg over the other and folded his hands into his lap. “Have you ever been the target of a psychopath's obsession, Mr. Holmes?”

 

“Sherlock. And yes.”

 

That was interesting. That was something Hannibal hadn't suspected, and he was sure Holmes was telling the truth. There was a hardness to that 'yes' as if it were something Holmes had to muster courage to spit out. Something he didn't want to admit. And what people found difficult to admit, they usually weren't lying about.

 

“And can you discern the motives of why this psychopath was obsessed with you?”

 

A flurry of thoughts moved behind Holmes' eye, and Hannibal recognized a spark of realization in the other man's face. It intrigued him, and he was pleased to find his curiosity of the famous consulting detective to be so rewarding.

 

Holmes' voice was quiet. “He thought I was like him.”

 

“Are you?”

 

Holmes stared at him without speaking for a moment. And though he was very good at disguising his emotions, Hannibal knew fear. Though he could not smell it, he was so acute at detecting it that it might as well have been a sixth sense.

 

Holmes' eyes narrowed slightly, his voice steady. “Are you like Tobias Budge?”

 

“No.” Hannibal could see the faintest flicker of surprise on Holmes' face as the consulting detective discerned Hannibal was speaking the truth. “But he thought I was.”

 

Holmes had a thoughtful look on his face as he digested this information, his hands steepling underneath his chin. He was somewhere else, and Hannibal watched him intently. Holmes was going into his memory palace, and Hannibal wanted to see the edges of it at work again.

 

Holmes' eyes flickered back to him, and a small smirk crossed the man's features to realize he was being observed. “So this psychopath turned his attentions to you, and you eliminated him outside of the legal system. Given your strength and abilities you could have easily incapacitated, then restrained him, and waited for your colleagues from the FBI. Instead you took matters into your own hands. Are we alike, Dr. Lecter?”

 

Hannibal gave him a half-smile, enjoying the mental sparring. “I am curious to find out.”

 

“Is there something you'd like to ask me?”

 

Hannibal rested his arms on the chair, easing back into it again. He took a moment to consider, and then asked, “Will you play something for me?”

 

If Holmes thought the request was bizarre, he made no mention of it, instead promptly resting the violin under his chin and lifting up his bow. Hannibal's eyelids lowered, almost shut close, as he watched the man play. Now that the violin was perfectly in tune, the wandering melody was more like free verse poetry and Hannibal could hear much more of Holmes' personality.

 

He favoured the lower notes, using the higher tones as a sharp accent, meant to jar the listener. He liked to keep people on their toes. Within the lower register he favoured simple fingering, but had an excellent ear for diatonic intervals and complementary notes. It was simple, but not amateur. Holmes played with his eyes both open and shut, and when his eyes were closed it revealed nothing about him. Many musicians lost themselves in their playing and enjoyed displaying the ecstasy of performing show on their face. But Holmes played to think, and his music was like the underscore of higher cerebral activity.

 

It was fascinating.

 

“Why trilliums?” Holmes asked, still playing his violin.

 

Hannibal was almost loathe to speak and to break the flow of music. “I thought Dr. Mrs. Watson would like them.”

 

“But the trillium...not a flower one can commonly find here. You went to some effort to pick that particular bloom. The official flower of a Canadian province, though I doubt you were highlighting some symbolism of the commonwealth. There are other white flowers that signify purity and chasteness. Why Mary? Why pick them for her?”

 

Hannibal smirked lightly as Holmes rattled through his thought process aloud. Holmes' questions were sharp and rapid-fire, each one a demand to know, an insistent ' _tell me_ '. “I enjoy the company of women. They understand the subtle politics of courtesies and social graces more frequently than men do. Mrs. Watson was a charming conversation partner.”

 

Holmes broke off his playing with a jagged note. “The three petals, like the trinity. Myself, John...and who? Yourself? Mary? Will Graham?”

 

Hannibal merely shrugged and looked at Holmes questioningly. Holmes' lips twisted a little with annoyance, but then a mischievous gleam entered his eye. He knew Hannibal wasn't going to tell him that easily, and he was entertained by the riddle. He tapped the bow against his leg again, his eyes cast heavenwards as he pondered.

 

“How does Will Graham catch his killers? You told me about his empathy, but it all sounds rather mystical to me. Tell me about his process.”

 

Ah, Will. An image of the young man entered Hannibal's mind. Scared, alone, confused. _Insistent_. Losing grasp of his own sanity, but insistent that Hannibal had something to do with it. The younger Holmes reminded Hannibal very much of Will, but with almost purposeful differences. Holmes was arrogant in a different way, it was born of actual confidence. And he had a sense of humour Will had lost a long time ago.

 

“You find the ability to empathize mystical?”

 

Holmes let out an annoyed breath that stirred the fringe of hair on his brow. “Don't be coy with me, Dr. Lecter. How does his process work? What does he do? How does he step into the mind of a killer?”

 

Hannibal fixed him with a shuttered gaze. “How do you catch your killers, Sherlock?”

 

“I'm a man of science. I look at the evidence and I make a deduction.”

 

Hannibal nodded slightly, this was the truth. With his attentive observation and wealth of esoteric knowledge, he could see that Holmes made connections other detectives did not. “Will uses a mental exercise to open himself to another's perspective. He calls it the pendulum. Do you have a metronome?”

 

Holmes looked around him absently, and then dug into a pile of clutter and pulled out a small metronome. He handed it over, and Hannibal placed it on the table beside him. He set it to a slow rhythm and Holmes watched the meter intently.

 

“Is it like a form of self-induced hypnosis?”

 

“I cannot say for certain. It exists purely within Will's mind. But the pendulum swings,” the metronome ticked methodically, “and he enters the killer's design. He places himself into the mental space of someone who could commit the barbarous acts he's witnessed and assumes their personality. He looks at how they were killed, and makes accurate deductions on why, what compulsions the killer has, and what they will do next.”

 

“It all sounds rather woolly to me.” Holmes was protesting the idea, but his eyes were still transfixed on the swinging meter of the metronome.

 

“It is incredibly effective.”

 

“Hmm.” Holmes finally looked away from the metronome, his hands gathering under his chin again as he thought. He 'went away' for a moment, and Hannibal smirked a little. Despite himself, Holmes was feeling comfortable enough to shut himself off and enter his inner space in Hannibal's presence. He went away for longer than when they had met previously.

 

“You consult  for the FBI now in Will's place. Do you use the pendulum to analyze the minds of your killers?”

 

Hannibal turned off the metronome and it seemed to break Holmes out of his private reverie. “No. I use the methods I was trained in to profile someone. I look at the evidence and compare them to other cases in the past to form a hypothesis.”

 

Holmes nodded, still somewhere in thought. With his hands still pointed together underneath his chin, his gaze flickered over to Hannibal's and there was an insatiably curiosity naked in his eyes.

 

“Are you familiar with the concept of a memory palace?”

 

“Yes, I employ one myself.”

 

Holmes was buzzing with curiosity. “And where do you keep the monsters? In the basement or in the attic?”

 

Hannibal smirked. “The kitchen.”

 

Holmes chuckled lightly, his smiles coming more frequently and with ease now. Hannibal's face remained serene, but inwardly he found Holmes' excitement a little contagious. Though he never outwardly revealed as much, he treasured the few times he found someone truly engaging.

 

“Well then, you'll have to cook for me some time. Can you cook?” Holmes waved his own question away, answering himself before Hannibal could reply. “Of course you can, and you're excellent.”

 

“It would be my pleasure.” Hannibal rose from the chair and collected his umbrella. “Though I'm afraid it is time for me to take my leave.”

 

“Of course, of course.” Holmes waved the bow in the air and then began to play again, in his peculiar distracted manner. Hannibal didn't ignore the fact that Holmes had quickly dismissed him and didn't even see him to the door, but the oblivious rudeness only amused him this time. It was very, very few that got away with that.

 

He shut the door to Baker street behind him and mused on what kind of dish the younger Holmes would suit.


	3. Chapter 3

 

“What's he doing here?”

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as Donovan was speaking to no one, but him. “I have to see the crime scene.”

 

“You've already been.”

 

Sherlock decided he was done with her, she was the kind of person one could only waste so much time on, and pushed by her to duck underneath the police tape. He heard her protest behind him, but jogged quickly up the flight of stairs to one Randall Mckinley's flat, the young gay gentleman that had been sliced open neck to belly.

 

_Come to RM's flat – SH_

 

_Having dinner with Mary – JW_

 

_Already here. Work to do. Come now. - SH_

 

Sherlock tucked the phone away into his pocket and surveyed the flat. He walked around the chair and the dark stains on the floor, constructing a mental floor plan of the space. He went down on his knees to inspect the floor, but curiously found no drag marks. No scratches in the wood, or scuff marks on the walls. Sherlock straightened up again and looked for every entrance and exit into the flat. There was a fire exit accessible from the window if a person were brave and could jump in the dark. No chance of CCTV.

 

Or the killer could have just left using the front door. There were times when no one was at home that the killer could have left undetected. That spoke to an amount of fearlessness. Confidence.

 

An experienced killer.

 

If there were no signs of a struggle than Mckinley invited his killer to his flat, probably under the pretence of an anonymous sexual encounter, or Mckinley was drugged. Sherlock walked from the door to the centre of the room, miming supporting a young man of Mckinley's height and weight. For someone strong and of similar or greater height, it wouldn't have been too much of a challenge. He would have to ask Molly Hooper for the toxicology results.

 

But drugs were traceable, and Lestrade had told him Scotland Yard was frustrated because there were no hair or fibre samples or fingerprints found anywhere. A careful killer wouldn't use anything that could be traced back to their identity.

 

Sherlock was at a dead end.

 

Though he was alone, the forensic crew members had cleared out quickly when they found out he was coming, Sherlock glanced around him to make sure he wasn't being observed. Privately embarrassed, he reached into his coat pocket and brought out his metronome. Still unsure if what he wanted to try was a good idea, Sherlock placed it on a table and set it to a slow rhythm.

 

He was a man of science, evidence and logic. But he was curious about this method Will Graham used. The metronome hand swung, to and fro, the ticking soon becoming hypnotic. Sherlock closed his eyes.

 

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

 

_He calls it the pendulum._

 

The metronome hand swung in Sherlock's mind, and he was standing in a white room. He blinked and looked around him in the room of his memory palace dedicated to the Minnesota Shrike. Something was different though. Will Graham was sitting in a chair, his hands cuffed together and lying in his lap. He looked as if he had walked out of the image of him locked up in the Baltimore asylum.

 

“Dr. Graham?”

 

Will Graham didn't speak, didn't look up at him.

 

“How do you catch your killers?” Nothing. “How would you catch Randall Mckinley's killer?”

 

Will Graham didn't speak. Sherlock had only seen pictures from newspapers of him. He did not know what Graham looked like animated, in motion, in the flesh.

 

Sherlock moved over to the crack in the wall. It had spread, the spiderweb lines crawling further along the otherwise smooth expanse. Sherlock ran his fingers over it, wondering what it could possibly mean, and he heard an unfamiliar voice behind him.

 

“This is my design.”

 

“What?” Sherlock's head whipped around, and suddenly there was light glaring into his eyes and obscuring his vision.

 

“Sherlock? What are you doing?”

 

Sherlock blinked several times and realized he was still standing in Mckinley's flat. The sun was setting and it glared through the window, hurting his eyes. Watson stood beside him, a hand tentatively shaking his arm. The metronome was still ticking.

 

“You're pale.”

 

“I'm fi-” His voice cracked and he tried again, “I'm _fine_.”

 

Watson shoved his hands into his pockets and looked around the flat. “Got anything new then?” He nodded at the metronome. “What's that for?”

 

Sherlock grabbed the metronome, fumbling with it as he turned it off and shoved it back into his pocket. Watson was looking at him curiously and he didn't want to explain what had unsettled him. “Mckinley was targeted by an experienced, ruthless killer. Someone who's done this many times before. He knows what he's doing, he's an expert.”

 

“Are you sure it's a man?”

 

Sherlock nodded, motioning to the door and then to the centre of the room. “Most probably. Mckinley's killer is someone who could easily overpower him, lift or drag him while leaving minimal markings.”

 

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, letting out a jagged sigh. “He's a professional. Someone who isn't prone to the usual instabilities or obsessions most serial killers are to have left a mistake, or have indulged in some behaviour that would have given me more clues. I'm afraid...I'm afraid there's little I can deduce until another body is found.”

 

Watson hid a shiver. “You think there will be others?”

 

Sherlock's voice was small. “I don't know. Probably not.”

 

Watson looked at him with surprise and concern. There had been a handful of cases that Sherlock hadn't solved, but half of those had been because Sherlock lost interest mid-way through, and the other were still small in number. Sherlock felt intensely uncomfortable under Watson's scrutiny and worry. He didn't like feeling beaten.

 

“What about the organs, Sherlock? This madman took Mckinley's kidneys. What's he done with them?”

 

Sherlock shrugged. “Some killers like to take trophies. He might have a collection of them...he could do all manner of things with them.”

 

Watson gesticulated in the air impatiently. “Like what?”

 

“Preserved them in jars, ground them into paste, made art with them, incorporated them into another object-” Sherlock shrugged his arms again helplessly, but a smile was breaking out on Watson's face.

 

“So _that's_ something we can find, isn't it? All those things take certain materials or machinery, don't they? We have a time of death, we know when Mckinley was killed. We'll look at other missing persons or other cases of bodies found without organs, and we'll look at records of people who've needed formaldehyde or what other mad stuff this killer needs.”

 

Sherlock started to break into a small, grateful smile as well to reflect the grin on Watson's face. He had been floundering in a creeping, insidious self-doubt, but with Watson's encouragement he was feeling the ground level underneath his feet again. He let out a self-conscious chuckle and clapped a hand to Watson's shoulder.

 

“Yes. _Yes_ – you go through missing persons reports from the last five years and I'll look through hospital records of theft.”

 

The grin on Watson's face dropped. “That could take ages.”

 

Sherlock was already bundling his scarf tightly around his neck and walking towards the flat door, a bounce in his step. “We have a killer on the loose, John! The game-”

 

“ _Don't_ ,” Watson pointed a warning finger at him, “don't you bloody say it.”

 

***

 

Hannibal was completely alone in the privacy of a kitchen, not his kitchen, but a suitable replacement. He rolled his shoulders, easing away a little stiffness, the movement graceful and feline, and uniquely private.

 

He was in the home of a colleague who had given him permission to use it while he was staying in London. The kitchen knives were not to his standard, but he had spent an hour carefully sharpening and honing them to his liking. He held one now in his hand with ease, feeling its weight, before carefully preparing the kidneys laid out on his cutting board.

 

A light gravy was already reducing on the stove. When in England, make steak and kidney pie, though Hannibal was making a deconstruction of the dish as he found the traditional iteration too heavy.

 

The young man it had come from embodied a particular pet peeve's of Hannibal's: intelligent, but wasting his given resources with a sense of entitlement, cocaine addiction, and a very improper sense of when it was appropriate to touch one's person.

 

The kidney's sizzled in a hot pan as he lightly seared them, before de-glazing the pan with a rich-bodied red wine. He was using a parsnip mash instead of potatoes and filo pastry rounds as a base. Each 'pie' would only be the circumference of a wine glass, delicate and ornate. He had a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon already in a decanter, Special Analyst Murray's favourite, to pair with the meal.

 

The motions of cooking were familiar and soothing to Hannibal, and he was able to compartmentalize his physical actions apart from his inner musings. He was thinking of Sherlock Holmes again, and amusing himself as he dissected the consulting detective in his mind.

He wanted the younger Holmes' brain. Perhaps a little contrived, but Hannibal couldn't resist poetic touches. He would take the pre-frontal cortex and the amygdala. He wondered if he would mash and then whip them until they were creamy and buttery, or if he would lightly batter and fry them. Perhaps, when it came to a man who prized his cerebral abilities so much, it was all right to be a little indulgent.

 

He would have the man's tongue as well, of that there was no doubt. Sliced thinly and cooked en sous-vide. The tongue was such a powerful muscle, it required a lot of attention and patience to soften and avoid unwanted chewiness. He thought of Sherlock Holmes' slips of the tongue, his obliviousness to how his words affected those who cared for him, his casually rude, sometimes bitter, sometimes witty words...

 

Hannibal could almost feel the texture and pressure of Holmes' tongue sliding between his teeth, the amount of force required to sever it, the satisfying motions of masticating that rude organ. He smiled darkly to himself.

 

Holmes was a rude man, but he was not one amongst the cattle. He was prize game, a treasured bounty that any self-respecting hunter would be proud to take a trophy from.

 

***

 

“Register me for the conference.”

 

Mycroft stopped in his tracks. “Absolutely not.”

 

“You're allowed to bring a guest. Register me as your guest.”

 

“After the insulting manner in which you treated Special Analyst Murray, I think the phrase is 'not on your life', Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock had that maddening expression on his face which usually meant he refused to understand Mycroft's position and was only focused on his goal. Mycroft headed his younger brother off before Sherlock could launch into another pestering tirade. “If you're so interested in Dr. Lecter's work why don't you use your connections with Scotland Yard to register yourself?”

 

“Registration's full.”

 

Sherlock wasn't even denying his motivations, and Mycroft turned to face his brother. He looked at Sherlock carefully. He knew when his younger brother obsessed over something, and despite the fact that they butted heads, he always did his best to keep Sherlock out of harm's way.

 

“You don't want to cause trouble at the Behavioural Sciences Conference, Sherlock. And remember what I said about Dr. Lecter.”

 

Sherlock's brow knitted together into a frown. “Is this another one of your attempts to hide me in a corner while you try and impress a desirable friend? I never played in the schoolyard with your toadies, Mycroft.”

 

Ah, Sherlock, always the first instinct to be cruel when told 'no'. Mycroft's umbrella tapped against the ground as he leaned in close to his brother. “Sherlock, if I worried about the potential of you embarrassing me in any situation I would have gone completely bald by twenty.”

 

Sherlock shot an impertinent look to Mycroft's hairline, and Mycroft snapped at him. “For once open your ears and listen to some common sense. _Tread carefully_ around Dr. Lecter. I can protect you in England, but America is a different matter. The FBI take care of their own.”

 

Sherlock's eyes darkened. “Like they took care of Dr. Graham?”

 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “And you think the actions they took against a serial murderer were unjustified?”

 

“No. Tragic, maybe.” There was something Sherlock wasn't telling him, he could never lie properly to Mycroft. However, Mycroft also knew he could never pull anything out of Sherlock when his brother decided to be obstinate about something.

 

“Keep your nose out of it and solve your next case. The world Dr. Lecter comes from is not one of your games.”

 

“Do you trust Lecter?”

 

Sherlock had a curious look on his face which bothered Mycroft, but also made him soften his tone. He felt as if some of what he had said reached his brother, but not in the way he intended. Whatever it was, at least it seemed he had managed to impress some of the seriousness of the situation onto Sherlock, and that was a small victory in and of itself.

 

Mycroft answered truthfully. “I don't trust anyone, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock gave him a queer, half-smile, nodded and then turned away. Mycroft brought out his phone as he watched his brother's receding figure and contacted the security company managing the conference. He could tell Sherlock was going to sneak in anyway, and he might as well use some favours now to make sure the stubborn fool didn't get arrested.

 

***

 

Lestrade walked into his office, a cup of coffee in hand to wash down the aspirin he was already fishing for in his pocket, and started when he saw Sherlock and Watson seated at his desk.

 

“Get out of my chair.”

 

Sherlock ignored him, rapidly typing into his computer and Watson gave him an apologetic shrug. Lestrade pointed accusingly at Sherlock. “Are you using my access code? Did you hack into my account again?”

 

Sherlock snapped at him in annoyance, “We're on the hunt for a killer, Lestrade. Don't get in the way.”

 

Lestrade slammed the coffee down on his desk and Watson jumped a little to avoid the spray of hot liquid. “Oh, I'm in your way, am I? I've got a dead body in the morgue and no bloody leads. I've got _you_ running around crying 'serial killer', but we've got nothing to prove it. Anderson's hounding me to call a press conference, Donovan's on my back to hush it up – I need something, Sherlock, or I need _another body_.”

 

Lestrade looked as if he immediately regretted his words as he pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long, frustrated sigh. Watson looked at once startled and sympathetic, and Sherlock finally tore his eyes away from the computer screen. Lestrade's eyes were bloodshot, he'd skipped a button on his collar and he had forgotten to put on deodorant.

 

“You should go home and get some rest.”

 

Lestrade snapped, “Don't tell me how to do my job, damn you.”

 

Sherlock replied calmly, “You need a minimum of five hours uninterrupted sleep to be working to the full potential of your mental faculties, even if the potential is average.”

 

“ _Sherlock_.” Watson gave him a sharp look.

 

“Really, it would be best if you went home and didn't interrupt me. That would be the most productive and helpful you could be right now.”

 

“Sod off.” Lestrade looked like he wanted to hit him, but found the effort too tiring. He motioned at Watson to slide an extra chair over to him and sank down into it. “Just tell me you're getting somewhere.”

 

Watson absently flicked a page of the missing persons report he had been reading. There was already a tall stack on Lestrade's desk. “I've been going through these the past few nights, but without a profile it's hard to say what's relevant.”

 

Sherlock's eyes were still scanning through the reports on the computer screen. “There have been some cold case files of young men murdered and having their organs taken, but it was always prize black market organs or genitalia.”

 

Lestrade and Watson both winced. Sherlock looked up at them with a mildly confused look on his face and Watson rolled his eyes. “Toxicology report came back from Mckinley, he was a regular cocaine user. So that definitely rules out any black market trade.”

 

Lestrade took the report from Watson to read over. “Cocaine, MDMA and ketamine. A real party animal. But not enough cocaine in his system that night for on overdose.”

 

Sherlock trained his uncanny gaze to Lestrade and in a quiet, but forceful voice said, “It's a serial killer, Lestrade. It wasn't an accident or manslaughter, or a crime of passion. It was premeditated, methodical and clinical.”

 

Lestrade was grimacing, but he didn't protest. He believed that in his gut to be true as well, otherwise he wouldn't have asked Sherlock to  consult. Sometimes half the battle was convincing the Detective Inspector to embrace his convictions. And to let Sherlock work unimpeded. The two usually went hand in hand.

 

“You keep saying serial, but we only have one body. Are his other victims in there, then?” Lestrade waved a hand over the pile of missing persons reports by Watson. “Or is this the only time?”

 

“His methods are too precise for this to be his first. His experience shows in everything.”

 

Lestrade sighed heavily. “Look, give me a profile. Something, _anything_ , I can slap on a report to send through Interpol. The usual stuff, what kind of victims he chooses, how he chooses them, some kind of trademark – anything.”

 

Watson looked to Sherlock. “We really only have the missing organs.”

 

“A profile...” Sherlock looked to both of them expectantly, and when he was met with blank stares, gestured impatiently for them to turn away from him. “I have to go to my mind palace.”

 

“For chrissake,” Lestrade pushed himself up from his seat and made his way out of the office, “let me know when he's done.”

 

Watson dutifully turned away and busied himself with the remaining reports. He was more used to Sherlock's unorthodox methods. Sherlock leaned away from the computer screen and closed his eyes.

 

***

 

Sherlock began where he normally did, a busy intersection in London. It was a quick trip to the Scotland Yard offices because he was already physically there, and because that was a mental path he navigated so many times. He opened a door and he was in the morgue with Molly Hooper.

 

“Bruising around the ankles that occurred while the victim was still alive. A cut beginning right from his sternum to just below his navel done with a scalpel.”

 

Sherlock tapped a finger to his lips as he observed the body of Mckinley laid out on the examination table before them. “Also performed while he was alive.”

 

Molly nodded, opening the flaps of skin and revealing the layers of fat and coagulated blood. “There's something odd about this, Sherlock. It's staring right at you.”

 

Sherlock looked at the long slice. It was precise and clean, an impressive feat even if the victim had been restrained. Alive, Mckinley would have struggled and his body would have gone into shock from the blood loss. A straight line.

 

“The killer didn't use a Y-incision.”

 

Molly nodded in agreement. “Why? Anyone with a working knowledge of anatomy or surgery would use a Y-incision for easier access to the internal organs.”

 

“Because the killer already knew exactly what he wanted to retrieve from Mckinley's body.” Sherlock's eyebrows rose up to his hairline. “Grim, indeed.”

 

Molly rested her hands on the examination table. She was much more assertive in his mind than she was in person. Her voice was demanding and insistent. “There's something else. Something you're assuming.”

 

“No, no, it's all logical,” Sherlock protested, pacing around his mental version of the morgue, “that only speaks more clearly to the killer having a working knowledge of anatomy. He's had some medical training. In fact, he might have previously been a surgeon-”

 

Molly persisted, “That's not it, Sherlock. Think again.”

 

Sherlock stopped in front of the body, his eyes narrowing. He could feel the answer hovering before him, slowly being teased into fruition. “Given the medical knowledge required to perform the mutilation I have assumed...”

 

Sherlock's eyes ran along the wound. “...that the killer used a scalpel.”

 

“There are other knives that could have opened this man.”

 

Sherlock nodded slowly as he digested that information. “Thank you, Molly.”

 

Her lips quirked into a small, sad smile and she covered the body with a sheet. Sherlock absently snapped his fingers together as he ruminated over the new piece of information, making his way to the door and pushing it open.

 

It led him down a white corridor. At the end of a corridor was the only door. He pushed it open and found himself in an empty theatre.

 

Sherlock looked around him, stunned. The walls were high with beautiful sculptures, red velvet brocade and plush seats. There was an orchestra on a gold-trimmed stage, though their faces were blurry and the music faint as if he were hearing it underwater. He had never been to this theatre before, it was like a mix of everyone he had been to.

 

There was only one person seated in the audience, and from the sleeked back dark hair Sherlock knew who it was. Nervously, he made his way down the aisle and gingerly sat down beside Hannibal Lecter.

 

“I don't understand.”

 

Lecter's eyes were trained towards the stage, hard and soft all at once. They looked dark in the dim lighting and cold, but the lines around his eyes were softened and spoke of being at peace. He murmured, “What don't you understand, Mr. Holmes?”

 

“Where we are and why you are here.”

 

Lecter closed his eyes briefly, following along to the strains of music Sherlock could just barely hear. His voice was soft and low in the hush of the theatre. “You need a criminal profile for the killer you are trying to catch. Perhaps you feel you don't understand, but it is more that you are unwilling to admit someone else may have more expertise on the subject than you do.”

 

Sherlock squirmed in the theatre seat. He looked around him again. It was an amalgamation of half-remembered recollections of going to the theatre with his family, and of the pictures he had surrounded himself with at his Baker street flat. Subconsciously he must have been preparing a room for Dr. Lecter all along, and this is what it looked like inside his mind palace.

 

“What is this killer's profile?”

 

Lecter shifted in his seat, crossing his legs and resting a finger against his temple. He still did not look away from the orchestra. “You aren't asking the right questions, Mr. Holmes.”

 

“ _Sherlock._ ” Sherlock leaned back in his seat, taking in Dr. Lecter. The man still betrayed nothing, but Sherlock felt as if he could observe the man all he wished without being observed in return. “What is the right question?”

 

“Is your killer ruled by his compulsions? What are those compulsions? What does he achieve by killing? Psychopaths are goal-oriented, Sherlock, even if their logic is something incomprehensible to most. You will not be able to catch this killer unless you can gain some insight into his perspective and his reasons. Your individual sense of logic is not enough.”

 

“So what you're saying is...”

 

That curious and familiar smirk curved at the corner of Lecter's mouth. “This is how Will Graham catches psychopaths. This is why he is so effective.”

 

Sherlock let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding in. “But it damaged him irrevocably. He couldn't escape the twisted minds he dived into. He assumed them so well he became a monster himself.”

 

Lecter's voice was light and teasing. “Are you afraid of becoming a monster, Sherlock Holmes?”

 

Sherlock's mouth opened and closed a few times, stunned. He whispered, “No.”

 

Lecter finally turned to him, but it had grown darker in the theatre, and so many shadows fell over his face that Sherlock could only see the red pinpricks of light that were Lecter's eyes.

 

“You are very talented at lying to yourself. How can you trust your mind palace if that is so?”

 

Sherlock's chest felt tight and he tried to take a deep breath. Instead his chest only grew tighter and he scrabbled frantically at the scarf around his neck, panicking as his vision grew dark and he desperately tried to breathe.

 

***

 

“Sherlock, it's all right. Just breathe.”

 

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he found himself hunched over his knees, Watson holding the back of his neck steady and with another hand cupping his forehead. Sherlock felt slightly dizzy and it took him a moment before he could straighten up.

 

“You started to have a panic attack.”

 

Sherlock felt his face grow hot with embarrassment, but nodded at Watson to show he appreciated the help. He rose unsteadily to his feet and croaked, “Baker street.”

 

He finally shook off the last vestiges of the anxiety attack by the time they exited the taxi outside 221B. Sherlock took in a deep breath of the cool night air and felt revitalized. The ride had been short, but silent. Watson didn't make his usual complaints that Sherlock overworked himself or didn't sleep enough, as if he felt Sherlock had been embarrassed enough. Instead he remained a quiet, but stalwart presence and Sherlock was immeasurably grateful for it.

 

Sherlock sank into his chair, and after making them a cuppa, Watson sat down in his chair. Sherlock felt the corners of his mouth twitch upwards at the familiar sight.

 

“You'll catch him. You're just stuck.” Watson looked so sincere it made Sherlock feel uncomfortably guilty. “But you'll figure it out.”

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and gave Watson a suspicious look. “Are you giving me a 'pep talk', John?”

 

Watson kept a mild expression on his face, though his tone was dry. “Of course not. When has the great Sherlock Holmes ever needed a pep talk? Surely not when he grumps around his flat in a mood.”

 

“I am not in a _mood_.” Watson was very bad at hiding his grins and Sherlock let out a frustrated sigh, though it was halfhearted at best.

 

“Pick up another case. We've had dozens of requests from the blog. Working on something else might help free you up your thoughts and crack this one.”

 

Sherlock crossed his arms against his chest. “None of them are interesting in the slightest.”

 

It sounded petulant even to his ears, and Watson must have thought so too. He gestured to the mural of pictures on the flat wall. “And this Lecter chap is your interesting pet project at the moment, hmm?”

 

Sherlock threw his head back and rested it on the top of his armchair, throwing his arms out in a display of exhaustion. “He's fascinating.”

 

“He's creepy.”

 

Sherlock chuckled. “I should tell Mary that you're jealous. You will get _such_ a lecture from her.”

 

Watson glared at him and defensively squared his shoulders. “I'm not jealous. I'm _not_. He is creepy. The way he talks, the way he looks at people. And sends their wife flowers.”

 

“And invites them to dinner?”

 

Sherlock laughed again as Watson almost leapt up from the arm chair.

 

“What?”

 

Sherlock waved a lazy hand in the air, even as Watson's eyes were bulging and he looked like he was going to strangle Sherlock if he didn't answer quickly enough. “Mary sent me a text asking if we were free this Sunday evening. She asked about the both of us, which means she hadn't asked you. If she hadn't asked you, it meant she was concerned about how you would react: evening means dinner invitation, you overreacting means Lecter – it's all very obvious.”

 

Sherlock had another good laugh at Watson's expense as the poor man went red in the face and looked like he was going to explode. Watson raised an angry finger to him, then dropped it, then raised it again a few times as he struggled to say something. Finally, he deflated and sat back down in his arm chair with a displeased grunt.

 

Sherlock looked at him curiously. “Why do you dislike Lecter? Really? His attentions towards Mary are obviously chaste, if a little peculiar. And you've never reacted this strongly towards the men whose attentions have been illicit. He gets under your skin. Why?”

 

Watson shrugged, uncomfortable, and Sherlock leaned in closer, his curiosity piqued. Watson gave a self-conscious cough, glaring at how intensely Sherlock was observing him, but his manner was still evasive as if he were afraid of how Sherlock would react to his reply.

 

“Well...it's more to do with you, really.”

 

“How do you mean?”

 

Watson puffed out his cheeks before letting out a long-suffering sigh, still searching for the right words. “You... _obsess_ over things. You don't like looking the fool around other people. And I'm not sure if Lecter's the kind of man you want to be...competing with.”

 

The words stung, especially because of how sincere Watson was being. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. “You think I'm competing with him?”

 

Watson sounded frustrated, placing his tea cup down harder on the table beside him than he normally would.

 

“Of course you are, Sherlock! You have to prove you're smarter than him, and you have to keep testing him, and it's all tied up with your bloody pride.” Watson's voice had raised at the end of that sentence, and he looked slightly sheepish, but kept pressing on. “And I don't think Lecter's the kind of person you want to be doing that with. But he's humouring you, and I don't know why. And I don't like that he is.”

 

Watson looked miserable and his concern was apparent, but Sherlock found it difficult in that moment to appreciate it. He felt like a balloon that had all the air taken out of it, and the pit of his stomach felt heavy. “Well, John...that's certainly one way to check a man's pride.”

 

Watson pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sherlock-”

 

Sherlock cut him off, leaning back and crossing his arms against his chest. He tried to keep his voice light, but it and his demeanour were closed. “It's quite all right, John. I've learned now when you're trying to tell me I'm being a 'drama queen'.”

 

Watson gave him the kind of look that told him he thought Sherlock was being quite the drama queen at present moment, but Sherlock didn't care and kept his arms crossed. Watson got up, finishing the last of his tea and gathering his coat around him.

 

“Pick another case, Sherlock. I'll see you tomorrow.”

 

Sherlock didn't answer and the door to the flat opened and closed. He was alone with his thoughts and Watson's indictment ringing in his ears. It always stung most the closer it hit to the truth.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Hannibal wiped his hands dry on a towel, lowering the heat of a stove element, and made his way quickly to the front door. When he opened it he saw Sherlock Holmes soaked from the pouring rain and glanced at the clock in the sitting room.

 

“It's very late, Mr. Holmes.”

 

“Sherlock, please.”

 

Hannibal's lips twitched upwards slightly at the first polite thing Holmes had said to him, and he moved aside to graciously invite the drenched man in. Holmes stood awkwardly in the hallway and Hannibal retrieved the towel he had just used and handed it to him. Holmes dried his hair and Hannibal gestured for him to have a seat at the kitchen counter.

 

Hannibal began to pour Holmes a glass of wine, but he put his hand over top the glass to stop him. A red drop splashed onto his finger. “I don't imbibe. Normally.”

 

Hannibal refilled his own glass instead as Holmes sucked his wine-spattered knuckle clean. The motion didn't go unnoticed and he hid a smirk as he took a sip. “Have you come here with your troubles?”

 

Holmes looked mildly amused at the archaic turn of phrase and didn't answer, instead looking around the beautiful home. “Dr. Friedson keeps a nice house.”

 

Hannibal returned to the mire-poix and stock reduction simmering on the stove, gripping the heavy pot easily and pouring the mixture over a roast pan in a smooth, steady motion. He wasn't surprised that Holmes had found him here. The detective had shown his competency already. “Surely you didn't come all this way to discuss interior decoration?”

 

Holmes folded his hands together and rested his chin on top of his interlaced fingers. “I'm working a case for Scotland Yard. A young male victim who was killed and posed in his apartment with pink lipstick smeared on his mouth. His kidneys were taken.”

 

Hannibal placed the empty pot into the kitchen sink and turned off the stove. He placed the roast pan into the oven and then leaned against his side of the kitchen counter. His sleeves were rolled up past his elbow and his collar undone. Holmes had removed his scarf and unbuttoned his coat, though he was still dripping on the floor. The significance wasn't lost on Hannibal and he considered Holmes carefully.

 

“You've already discussed this with Dr. Watson and found the answers wanting. What further insight are you hoping I can provide?”

 

Holmes stiffened slightly. “I see we're getting straight to the point then.”

 

“Not at all, Sherlock. We can discuss whatever you feel like.”

 

Hannibal remained still, though his posture was relaxed instead of stony. Holmes had a fragile support system with only Dr. Watson as his stalwart pillar. That was straining on both parties, particularly Dr. Watson, and Hannibal felt a kind of hunger at the knowledge that when that foundation shook, Holmes had sought him out. Like any ambush predator, Hannibal was patient and waited for Holmes to circle closer and closer into his reach, relaxed yet ready at any second to deliver the death strike.

 

Holmes side-stepped the subtext of the conversation, tapping a free finger against the side of his jaw, and asked, “What are your experiences with killers who take trophies? What is their compulsion, their goal?”

 

Hannibal reached for his wineglass, shifting so he could rest a hip against the kitchen counter. He studied the wine swirling inside the glass as if he were contemplating his answers within its liquid depths. “Why does anyone desire a trophy? To commemorate a unique event that makes one proud. Memory is important to many psychopaths. They are constantly directed by and further validating their unique perspective of the world. Their logic and perspective are constantly challenged by the world around them. A trophy is a benchmark of their success in asserting their will.”

 

Holmes' eyes were half-closed, his gaze far away. Hannibal smiled as he watched the detective digest that information and store it away. The scene strongly reminded him of when another shining mind had sat in his kitchen searching for answers, hunting a monster, and lost. He felt the first tendrils of yearning slowly uncoil at the base of his tongue, the want to taste pushing gently against his iron patience.

 

“Why display them? How would they display these macabre tokens?”

 

Hannibal stretched his arms above his head in one languorous motion, his eyes fluttering closed briefly as he felt the satisfying strain of every muscle responding to pressure. Holmes was watching him carefully, curiously, wondering why such a display was now accessible to him. Maybe Holmes knew he was being baited. That was acceptable. Hannibal knew that a mind like Holmes' wouldn't be able to resist the intricate puzzle of a snare, even as it slipped around his neck.

 

“The matter of these psychopaths you hunt, Sherlock, is actually very simple. They want to be caught.”

 

Hannibal was then leaning against the counter again, swift as a viper, and closer to Holmes than they had ever been. “It comes back to the assertion of their will. They want to challenge those around them, hoping to find someone like them who is worthy of their time. A psychopath, in his own way, can be very generous.”

 

Holmes didn't start, but had grown very still again and was holding in a breath. Hannibal knew he had a captive audience and continued, “You understand that behaviour. You display it yourself. It frightens those closest to you.”

 

Holmes refused to be that easily cowed, his own face settling into a serene expression. “It doesn't frighten you.”

 

“Does it distress Dr. Watson?”

 

Holmes' face closed and his eyes hardened. Hannibal was enjoying himself and gently pressed further. “He wants to protect you, but you resent it. Because he thinks you need protection from yourself.”

 

Holmes' voice came out as a whisper. “Do you think that concern is valid?”

 

“No.”

 

Hannibal pushed away from the counter and turned on the kitchen sink tap. He began to clean the dishes he had used, his expression only politely interested as if they had been discussing something as banal as the weather. “Perhaps it's an occupational hazard, but in my line of work I've found there is no such thing as normal or abnormal. Only the mundane or the interesting.”

 

“You find me interesting.” Holmes couldn't completely mask the pleasure in his voice.

 

“Should I not?”

 

There was something hard about the way Holmes looked at him now, but the curiosity was stronger. “What is it about me that you want to fix, Dr. Lecter? That's the instinct of every psychiatrist. But you don't seem interested in the usual.”

 

“Do you need to be fixed, Sherlock?”

 

Holmes was having none of it, shaking his head and his words taking on their usual demanding tone. “What is it?”

 

Hannibal turned off the kitchen tap and dried his hands on a fresh towel. He took another sip of his wine and tilted his head as he regarded Holmes through lowered lids. “How have you constructed your memory palace?”

 

Holmes looked slightly taken aback. He hadn't expected that line of query. “Room by room.”

 

Hannibal nodded as if he approved, but pushed further. “The foundation?”

 

Holmes looked slightly confused, and Hannibal rested his arms on the counter again, leaning in, but not too close. “Were you methodical in its construction or going by instinct? The method of Loci, first introduced to us by the Ancient Greeks. Did you familiarize yourself with the texts: the Art of Memory or the Memory Palace of Matteo Ricci?”

 

“I did.”

 

There was still a tinge of bewilderment and even bashfulness on Holmes' face and Hannibal merely nodded again. It was as he suspected, and all for the better. “You read these texts to identify and confirm what you had been doing instinctively, and then thought no further upon it. Tell me, Sherlock, what does your memory palace look like?”

 

Hannibal didn't expect Holmes to answer him that easily, and Holmes remained silent. Silent, but also excited, suspicious, and intrigued. Holmes was looking at him expectantly, a challenge in his eyes, and Hannibal answered for him with a smirk. “It looks like London.”

 

Holmes did not need to say 'yes'. Hannibal already knew, had already guessed from their interactions, and the stillness from the detective spoke volumes to him. The wire loop of the snare was reflecting in Holmes' eyes, and he was rooted to the spot like any curious prey. Unable to run away.

 

The silence stretched and grew between them like the feeble kicks of a trapped animal. Tentative at first, and then growing frantic. Holmes was desperately trying to reciprocate, to make his move, say anything, but his window of opportunity was closing.

 

The oven timer chimed, Hannibal gave Holmes an apologetic smile, and turned his back. He opened the oven door to check on his dish, the tantalizing scents drifting through the kitchen, before closing the door and lowering the temperature. It was meant to slow-cook overnight.

 

“It is late, Sherlock. You should return home.”

 

Holmes blinked, seemed to wake from a trance, and then snatched up his scarf and began tying it around his neck. Hannibal's eyes travelled along the length of the kitchen counter, passing briefly over the knife on the counter, and then to Holmes. He was tempted, sorely tempted, to take Holmes now. But Hannibal knew the moment to flush the game would come later, and haste was the enemy of all careful hunters.

 

Holmes launched himself away from the counter, doing up his coat buttons in swift motions, already opening the front door and walking out without a 'good night'.

 

Hannibal was thinking he wanted Holmes' cheeks as well.

 

***

 

Holmes waited until he had rounded the street corner before straightening his posture, removing his hands from his coat pockets and quickening his pace to a brisk, confident stride. All visible airs of distress evaporated from him in a few steps. He passed underneath the lamp post at the next block, and subtly nodded towards a member of his homeless network watching from the alley. He received a nod back and the confirmation of the 'all clear' sign.

 

His conversation with Watson had upset him, and he had purposefully held onto some of those feelings when he sought Lecter out. It was much easier to exaggerate genuine feelings than to fabricate them entirely. And he wanted to see how Lecter acted in a situation where he held more power.

 

Holmes hadn't been fully been playing vulnerable, some of it had been real, and that had spooked him a little. Even with an agenda, to lay oneself open to gauge a reaction was nerve-wracking. Lecter responded very well to it, and had finally revealed more of how extensive his natural resources were. He had guessed correctly what the foundation of Sherlock's mind palace looked like, and that had sent a chill down Sherlock's spine.

 

Lecter had also guessed the dynamics of his friendship with Watson accurately, but Sherlock felt any truly competent psychiatrist would be able to deduce that. It was far more interesting that Lecter had shown an interest in nurturing the behaviours others criticized Sherlock for.

 

If Sherlock cared to admit it to himself, that feeling was rather nice. They were still circling each other, but pushing closer to approaching the line of 'like' rather than 'not like', and Lecter seemed receptive of and even desiring of that conclusion. Sherlock felt the usual resistance to anyone trying to mentor him, but he couldn't deny that a deeper interaction with Lecter wouldn't be exciting and compelling.

 

_John was right, though_.

 

Sherlock was competing with Lecter, challenging him, and provoking him into playing this game with him. Psychiatrists hated Sherlock for this behaviour and never indulged him. Except Lecter was more than willing to play.

 

The conclusion was obvious. Lecter was a dangerous man to cross, though the shape and depth of that danger was still unclear.

 

And Sherlock knew it was his flaw, but the hints of danger only drew him closer in, instead of making him back away.

 

***

 

“Again?”

 

Sherlock looked up from Lestrade's computer screen to the Detective Inspector and grinned broadly, before returning his attention to the files he was reading.

 

“I work here, you know.”

 

“You're not working right now.”

 

Lestrade flipped him a rude hand gesture, but already knew he was defeated. He had too many things going on to get into a childish game of tug-of-war. “Just don't do anything illegal on that, all right?”

 

“I won't. Any further.”

 

A string of muttered curses spat out under Lestrade's breath as he slammed the office door shut behind him. Sherlock waited until Lestrade was out of sight and then picked up the office telephone. He dialled the number displayed on the Tattle Crime blog, and was pleasantly surprised to get a response after only two rings.

 

“Am I speaking to Freddie Lounds?”

 

“Who wants to know?” The voice on the other line was a woman, at once coy and slippery. Typical journalists.

 

“Miss Lounds, I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade and am calling in an unofficial capacity. I would like your opinions on a case you covered recently.”

 

“No, you aren't.” Lounds' voice was teasing, and sharp. “DI Lestrade has given video interviews before and you don't sound a thing like him.”

 

“We always sound different on the phone.”

 

“Tell me who you are or I won't talk. And I'm sure you don't want this to be a waste of your time.” She didn't sound angry in the slightest. Instead, she was cheerful and probing, her curiosity apparent and relentless. Sherlock could see her being able to tease answers out of reluctant interviewees quite easily.

 

Sherlock decided to give her what she wanted because he needed to know more than she did. “My name is Sherlock Holmes and I need access to Will Graham.”

 

“ _Sherlock Holmes_ ,” she practically purred with delight, “the famous British detective with the funny hat.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. _That bloody hat_.

 

“Will Graham is a dangerous murderer locked up in the Baltimore State Hospital. No one has access to him.”

 

“Not even yourself?”

 

She laughed, pleased and still coy. “Not yet.”

 

“He isn't allowed phone calls or visitors?”

 

“No phone calls. And he refuses to see anyone except for Dr. Lecter or Dr. Bloom. Why are you interested, Mr. Holmes? Do interests in the copycat killer reach over the pond?”

 

Sherlock hung up the line before Lounds could continue. Any prolonged conversation with her would just end up in a petty power game and further toying on her part. Journalists were all the same – anything for a story. And Sherlock had little patience for it. Lounds had already told him everything he needed to know.

 

Will Graham still received visits from Dr. Bloom. Given their past history, Sherlock knew he would be able to find a sympathizer in Bloom, but had been unsure as to how accurate her opinions on the case would be. However, the game had progressed beyond that point and now he just needed insight into the man who was Will Graham. A different perspective.

 

Using Lestrade's access codes, Sherlock signed into the FBI's internal directory and looked up Dr. Bloom's contact information. He called her office number and got her answering machine. He tried her mobile number instead and received an automated greeting again. He hung up without leaving a message.

 

Sherlock drummed his fingers against the table. He looked at the time, calculated what hour it was in Baltimore, and realized Dr. Bloom was probably giving a lecture or working. He would try again when it was more likely that she had retired for the evening.

 

Sherlock went back to the computer and signed out of Lestrade's account. He then pulled up the internal server for the CIA and typed in Special Analyst Murray's login information.

 

Mycroft would be so displeased with him if he knew. Sherlock grinned to himself and hit 'enter' with relish.

 

Sherlock's eyes were blurs as he sped-read through numerous files, pulling up as many internal reports as he could. There was a chance Special Analyst Murray would try to access her account while he was using it and flag a security breach. Sherlock wanted to get as much information as he could as quickly as possible in case that happened.

 

He read the report on Jack Crawford. Under evaluation from an internal affairs review. Numerous successful cases where the murderer was apprehended, charged and found guilty in court. The death of Miriam Lass, a Behavioural Analyst-in-training under Crawford's wing. The case still open on the Chesapeake Ripper.

 

Crawford's white whale. Sherlock pulled up the case files for the Ripper.

 

Grisly. Very grisly. Yet beautiful. Sherlock looked at the posed bodies of the victims and noticed the theatricality and artistry that had gone into their display. Detail-oriented and meticulously planned.

 

Organs missing from every victim.

 

Sherlock wondered what it was about American psychopaths that they all seemed to love taking trophies. The Chesapeake Ripper took organs or body parts. The Minnesota Shrike used the hair from his victims. Will Graham was found with Abigail Hobbs' ear and parts of every one of his victims in his fishing lures.

 

Sherlock made sure he scrolled to the end of every file and report on the Chesapeake Ripper so he would be able to recall its specifics at a later time, and then moved onto the internal reports on Will Graham.

 

Will Graham had worked with the FBI previously and returned to teaching. Psychiatric evaluations found him unstable, prone to internalizing his work and unfit for duty. Jack Crawford ignored the warning signs and brought Graham back. He had recently been diagnosed with autoimmune encephalitis.

 

He shot Garret Jacob Hobbs ten times.

 

Sherlock paused. He read through the section carefully. The files accessed through Murray's account were more extensive than the physical copies Lecter had brought with him for the conference.

 

A phone call had been made to Hobbs' residence minutes before the FBI arrived. Hobbs had already killed his wife and had a knife to Abigail's throat when confronted by Graham and Crawford.

 

“Someone warned you,” Sherlock murmured aloud.

 

Frantically, he scanned through the other case files for the murders Graham had committed. A crime scene photograph of Georgia Madchen's burnt corpse caught his eye. He examined it carefully, his head tilted slightly. He saw something in the wreck, but couldn't make out what it was. Only that it was a foreign object.

 

Sherlock looked through the medical findings. Traces of plastic.

 

Sherlock sucked in a breath. A static charge would have set the chamber ablaze. Someone had given Georgia Madchen a hair comb. Was Will Graham the type of psychopath that could manipulate someone in such a fashion?

 

No, surely a man who had a complete mental break as Graham had would not have been able to possess the calculated premeditation that action spoke of. Sherlock looked through the profile of Graham again. Missing time. Mild seizures. Hallucinations.

 

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly and he was in a mental version of the Baker Street flat. Watson was seated in his armchair and ran through the symptoms and disease trajectory of encephalitis. Sherlock briefly thought, 'thank you, John' and forcefully pulled himself out of his mind palace and back to the screen.

 

The phone call. The comb. Will Graham-

 

The screen flashed before him, breaking his concentration. A security flag was flashing on the screen, asking Sherlock to verify his identification. Damn, just his luck. Sherlock considered how to diffuse the situation, and then pulled the power cord for Lestrade's computer out of the wall. Let them make of that what they would.

 

He hurriedly gathered his coat and exited the office. He didn't want to face Lestrade's wrath once the Detective Inspector got wind of exactly what kind of 'illegal activity' he had been up to.

 

***

 

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

 

The metronome hand swayed to and fro.

 

Sherlock stood facing his window inside the Baker Street flat, but his eyes were focused on nothing in particular. He had his hands clasped behind his back and rocked gently from his heels to the balls of his feet, like he was preparing to dive into water.

 

He closed his eyes and a blank, white corridor appeared before him. He pushed open a heavy door and walked into the blank room with the cracks on the wall.

 

The cracks had spread even further, now stretching onto the floor. Sherlock made his way to the edge of the decay and trembled. The ground did not feel stable under his feet. He looked to the centre of the room and Will Graham sat, hands cuffed, eyes to the floor.

 

“Will. Why did you hurt Abigail Hobbs?”

 

Will Graham's voice was hoarse and low. “I couldn't protect her.”

 

Sherlock felt a sharp twist of pity hit him in the chest. “Why did you kill Abigail?”

 

Will Graham began to shake in the chair. His body trembled violently of its own accord, and his head snapped back, his eyes rolling into the back of his head until only the whites showed. Sherlock cried out in alarm and ran over as Will Graham suffered in the throes of a full-body seizure.

 

“Will!”

 

Will Graham's head lolled grotesquely and his white, blank eyes stared eerily at Sherlock. His lips moved clumsily, and he croaked, “Find Hannibal. Find Hannibal...”

 

Foamy spittle started to erupt from Will Graham's mouth and he made pathetic choking noises. The blankness of the room felt oppressive, and Sherlock backed away and found himself bumping into a door handle. Horrified, unable to tear his eyes away from Will Graham's suffering, he twisted the knob behind him and fell through into another room.

 

Sherlock fell to the ground and looked around to see he was in a kitchen. He scrambled to his feet, massaging his chest and breathing hard through his nose. Mycroft was sitting with a glass of wine by the kitchen counter. Molly Hooper was standing by the sink.

 

“Sherlock, the answer has been staring at you in the face this whole time,” Mycroft commented drily. “You aren't the only one who likes to play games, you know. And some have been playing it for longer.”

 

Sherlock felt a cold sweat overtake him and he ran a shaking hand through his hair. It came back drenched, and he tugged at his collar uncomfortably. Molly gave him a sympathetic smile, but she was always colder in his mind.

 

Mycroft looked completely disinterested, and was speaking to him in that unique mix of exasperation and encouragement. “Let go of all other distractions, Sherlock. You are not Will Graham and you don't possess an ounce of the empathy he has.”

 

Sherlock stammered, “I know that.”

 

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. “But have you forgotten that? How have you solved every case previous to this one, brother? It wasn't by using someone else's methods.”

 

“I-I haven't...” But the protest died in Sherlock's throat and he felt cold all over. Mycroft gave him a knowing look.

 

“Someone has wanted you to view this case from Will Graham's perspective. Why? Make a deduction.”

 

Sherlock felt sick. He felt as if the walls of his memory palace were tilting and throwing him off balance. He grasped the ledge of the kitchen counter for support, his breath coming out in jagged gasps.

 

“Sherlock. Deduce.”

 

Sherlock took a deep, steadying breath and wiped the sweat from his face. “I'm afraid, Mycroft.”

 

Mycroft almost looked sad. “I know.”

 

Sherlock felt calmer and steeled himself. “None of the other cold cases match up with the MO of Randall Mckinley's killer. Mckinley isn't the first victim of a new serial murderer on the loose. He was killed by someone with experience. Mckinley was killed a few days after Hannibal Lecter arrived in London.”

 

Sherlock couldn't fight the tremble in his voice, but now that he had started he found it easier to continue and forced himself to push on. “Hannibal Lecter has the strength and calm under pressure to have easily incapacitated Mckinley. Lecter mutilated him while he was still alive and took his kidneys. He posed Mckinley afterwards because he leaves an artistic touch on everything. The lipstick...the lipsti-”

 

Sherlock fought hard to keep his eyes open. He wanted desperately to close them and abandon himself to the scream that was building in his chest. “...the lipstick was a message. Mckinley may have already been wearing it, I don't know. But it was left on him or painted on him for a purpose. It's a vulgar shade and it's tacky. It isn't sophisticated or cultured. It's _rude._ Mckinley was a rude man.

 

“Hannibal Lecter wants me to know what he does to rude people.”

 

Mycroft's expression was unfathomable, but his tone was soft. It sounded like the few times Mycroft had expressed his compassion to Sherlock openly in real life. “There's more, Sherlock. You know there's more. You've been circling around the truth this whole time, but you have refused to delve deep in the right direction because you were enjoying the game too much. The game is over.”

 

Sherlock felt like he was on the edge of despair, and looked up at his mental personification of Mycroft. He was glad, in a way, that he would never have this conversation with his real-life flesh and blood brother.

 

“The copycat killer of the Minnesota Shrike left the FBI a clue to lead them to the arm of Miriam Lass. He was baiting Jack Crawford and pulling him into a dark game. The copycat killer is a sadist. Manipulative, very intelligent and has a flair for the dramatic. He had intimate knowledge of the murders of not only the Minnesota Shrike, but the Chesapeake Ripper as well. He wanted to destroy Crawford.”

 

Mycroft asked, “Why can't it be Will Graham?”

 

“Will Graham isn't a sadist.”

 

Mycroft clucked his tongue in disapproval and shook his head. “No, Sherlock, that's conjecture. A guess based on emotional prejudice, and you have never even met the man. It isn't evidence and it isn't fact. _Why_ can't Will Graham be the copycat killer?”

 

“Because...” Sherlock felt a terrible weight on his shoulders. “Because he couldn't have made that phone call to Garret Jacob Hobbs. The physical opportunity was slim, but not impossible. Yet, the stage his encephalitis is in now, and the rate at which it's progressed, means at that time he hadn't contracted the disease yet. He had no motive to aid Hobbs. He wasn't a killer then.”

 

Sherlock grew very still, feeling the oppressive weight grow in his chest. “He isn't a killer now.”

 

Mycroft said nothing, but gave Sherlock a slow nod. Sherlock looked desperately to Molly Hooper, who had been quiet this whole time. She must have been here in this room for a reason. “What does he do with the organs?”

 

Molly shook her head patiently. He wasn't asking the right question. “Did he use a scalpel, Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock shrugged helplessly. “I don't know.”

 

Molly persisted. “What else could he have used?”

 

Her hand strayed by the wood block of kitchen knives on the counter. Sherlock felt weak at the knees and gave her a desperate, pleading smile as if to ask her to reassure him that it was all a joke. She could offer him no comfort.

 

“You need to ask a chef.”

 

Sherlock doubled over, sliding to the floor and breaking into peals of helpless, manic laughter. He couldn't handle it, and he succumbed to the bizarre giggles bubbling up and forcing their way out. He pounded himself hard on the chest to try and shock his system into restarting. He knew he was veering close to the line between laughter and screaming.

 

Sherlock gripped the kitchen counter with white knuckles and pulled himself back up to his feet. He heard the sound of a knife against a wooden cutting board. Mycroft and Molly were gone. Instead, Hannibal Lecter stood by the kitchen counter, breaking down what looked like a pig's haunch.

 

“What kind of knife could make that clean of a cut?”

 

Hannibal pursed his lips as he considered. “Several. The easiest to use would be a sharpened filleting knife of high quality steel.”

 

Hannibal severed the strong tendons within the haunch, placed his knife down and then gripped both ends of the haunch. In one swift motion he pulled down hard, snapping the bone at the joint. Sherlock watched, nauseated and mesmerized.

 

“Why were Mckinley's shoulders broken at the bone?”

 

Hannibal picked up the knife again, severing the haunch into two halves with a few, powerful chops. “It's part of the process of breaking down cuts of meat. Allows easier access to the sweetbreads.”

 

Sherlock's mouth felt stretched apart as it cracked into a queer smile. He felt no mirth, only that manic bubble of laughter or screaming threatening to spill forth again. He didn't want to ask, but he had to. He always _had_ to. “Jack Crawford described the Chesapeake Ripper as killing in 'sounders'.”

 

Hannibal wiped his hands on a towel and brought his full attention to Sherlock. “A sounder is a herd of boar. It's also a butcher's term to mean three pigs. Three victims per cycle.”

 

Hannibal reached behind him and brought forth a Trillium bloom. He tucked the white flower into the breast pocket of Sherlock's coat. He then waved a gracious arm to the oven and gripped the door handle.

 

“Would you like to see what's for dinner?”

 

Sherlock shook his head, but the door was already opening. He felt a gust of hot air on his face, the growing darkness as the mouth of the oven yawned open...

 

_Ring!_

 

Sherlock came to violently, almost falling over. His heart was hammering in his chest as he fumbled for the source of the sound. It was his phone. He looked at the screen and saw that it was Dr. Alana Bloom. He quickly took the call, pausing for a moment to let out a shaky breath, before bringing the receiver to his ear.

 

“Dr. Bloom.”

 

“Who is this?”

 

Sherlock licked his dry lips, his nerves swiftly returning to him. “Someone who knows Will Graham is innocent.”

 

There was a pause on the other line. Then a tight, strained reply. “How did you get this number? Are you with the press?”

 

“Dr. Bloom, I am a consulting detective. You don't need to believe me. But it is singularly important that you tell me what Will Graham thinks of Hannibal Lecter.”

 

There was another pause. Sherlock was afraid that Dr. Bloom would hang up on him, but as the silence stretched on he knew he had her. When she spoke again her voice spoke to volumes of pain, confusion, betrayal and a smothered hope.

 

“They were close. Now Will thinks Hannibal framed him. He's confused and in denial. He's been saying Hannibal is the real copycat killer and even-”

 

“-the Chesapeake Ripper.”

 

“How-” She sounded spooked.

 

“Thank you, Dr. Bloom.”

 

She hung up quickly, and Sherlock slid his phone back into his pocket. He felt like he had been frozen, but the paralysis was lifting from his body bit by bit.

 

Will Graham had solved this case long before he did.


	5. Chapter 5

“Thank you, Dr. Lecter. This meal was delicious.”

 

The thanks sounded clumsy on Watson's lips, and he smiled a little self-consciously. The dinner had been a little awkward for him, especially when he came home to find Dr. Lecter cooking in his kitchen, but Mary had held up the lion's share of conversation. He didn't want to come across as ungrateful, however, as it had honestly been the finest meal he had eaten in a long time.

 

“It was no trouble, Dr. Watson. I find one hospitable turn deserves another, and I enjoy cooking for others.”

 

Mary smiled, sipping at her second glass of wine. Lecter had brought a couple bottles of a dry chardonnay and it tasted like a thousand dollars a drop. “It's a pity Sherlock never showed up.”

 

Watson smirked. “I think a dinner this nice would have been wasted on him, honestly.”

 

Lecter gave them his curious half-smile. “I think there's still a chance he'll make an appearance.”

 

There was a pounding on the front door, and then the sound of it being forced open. Watson leapt to his feet, and then started when Sherlock burst into the dining room. “Blimey, speak of the devil-”

 

Sherlock's eyes were wild when he saw the finished plates, and his eyes locked with Lecter's. Lecter had a politely curious look on his face, but Sherlock's gaze was intense and accusatory.

 

“Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?”

 

Mary's shock was quickly fading, and she gestured at an empty seat. “You're too late for dinner, but come have a drink with us. Were you busy with a case?”

 

Sherlock grabbed Watson by the arms and shook him. “What did you eat? _What did you just eat?_ ”

 

Watson gaped at him, and Sherlock let go of him quickly and instead reached for the salt shaker on the table. Sherlock grabbed a free glass and began dumping the contents of the shaker into it. Mary and Watson stared at him in mute surprise and confusion.

 

Lecter was the only one who seemed unfazed. He looked calmly at Sherlock and answered for them, “Herring.”

 

Sherlock looked at him dumbfounded, still holding the glass of salt. “Herring?”

 

Mary looked torn between being embarrassed and angry. “Yes, Dr. Lecter made a beautiful French dish from the coastal region.”

 

Sherlock started laughing hysterically, and Mary and Watson looked at him afraid that he had finally lost his mind. Lecter dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin and then briskly stood up from the table. He placed a gentle, but firm hand on Sherlock's shoulder and took the glass of salt away from him.

 

“Mr. Holmes, why don't we step outside for some fresh air?”

 

Mary shot Watson a quizzical look, and he snapped at Sherlock, “Do you want to explain what in the hell is going on?”

 

Sherlock, however, allowed Lecter to lead him to the door, still laughing. “No, no, I think some fresh air is a good idea. See you in a minute, John.”

 

Helpless, Watson watched them leave and then threw his arms up in the air. Mary shrugged her shoulders and took a large swallow of her wine. Watson opened and closed his mouth a few times as he fumbled for some way to sort out the whirlwind of activity that had just taken place at his dining table.

 

He finally settled for, “If he broke our door, I'm going to kill him.”

 

***

 

Sherlock stopped laughing the moment he and Lecter stepped out of the Watson's residence. They walked down the road and the silence between them seemed to crackle with electricity. Sherlock could hear the blood thundering in his ears, but Lecter was still as serene as ever.

 

Lecter's eyes slid over to see Sherlock staring at him with a frightful intensity, and he broke into an amused smile. “Would it be safe to assume that the, as the phrase goes, 'the jig is up'?”

 

Sherlock nodded slowly. They stopped underneath a lamp post, and from the way the light spilled it covered Lecter's eyes in shadows. Only those two strange pinpricks of red light shone back at him.

 

“”I know what you are, Dr. Lecter.”

 

Lecter was still smiling, and he tilted his head in a show of curiosity. “Really, Mr. Holmes? That seems to be a question for the philosophers. With many disparaging answers.”

 

His amusement, his _calm_ , infuriated Sherlock. Sherlock spoke each word as a damning indictment. “You killed Randall Mckinley. You took his kidneys so you could _eat_ them. You framed Will Graham as the copycat killer. You've been using him and your connections with the FBI for intimate details of the Minnesota Shrike to copy Garrett Jacob Hobbs.”

 

Lecter's smile dropped slightly and his tone, while still light, bared some steel. “Copy? Mr. Holmes, you're trying to offend me.”

 

Something in the back of Sherlock's mind was sounding a warning, but Sherlock was at a point beyond caring. He spat out, “You're the Chesapeake Ripper. You're a serial killer, a cannibal and a psychopath.”

 

Lecter grinned again and clapped his hands together slowly. “Very good, Sherlock. Though I would disagree with you on the last point. There have been differing opinions on what constitutes a true psychopath.”

 

“I am not interested in debating the academic definitions of a monster with you!”

 

Lecter moved so quickly that Sherlock had no chance to react, and suddenly Lecter was gripping his face painfully with both hands. Sherlock's heart fluttered in his chest, drumming an erratic tattoo against his ribs. Lecter's grip was firm and unrelenting, and his nose was just barely skimming against Sherlock's skin. Lecter turned Sherlock's face this way and that under the dim pool of light, as if carefully examining a painting. Or a cut of meat.

 

He murmured softly, “For such an extensive construct, your memory palace has a fundamental flaw. A pity to see such promise wasted...”

 

Lecter's breath was dry and sweet, vaguely reminiscent of wine. Sherlock shuddered as he thought that sometimes it would have the coppery scent of blood.

 

“Did you ever discover what my memory palace looks like, Sherlock Holmes?”

 

Sherlock struggled to keep his breath from coming out in short, panicked spurts. He said bitterly, “Some ancient museum with baroque halls and reliquaries. A nice swimming pool too, I guess.”

 

Lecter chuckled softly. “My family's estate was not a museum, but it was beautiful. Cold, and always in winter. Snowing. Do you know why?”

 

Sherlock spat, “I don't care.”

 

Lecter's fingers dug harder into his face, though his expression remained mild. “So I can see the tracks that lead to and away from the door. A warning system. Do you know what was the first thing I constructed after laying down the foundations?”

 

Sherlock couldn't shake his head 'no' because Lecter was gripping him too hard, but Lecter seemed to sense the movement. He smirked again and whispered, “ _Walls_.”

 

Lecter suddenly released Sherlock's face and took a step back. Sherlock tried not to stumble, rubbing his cheek and panting. Lecter smiled pleasantly at him, and leaned casually against the lamp post. He looked like a shadow wearing a man suit.

 

“One of the very first things you must do when constructing a memory palace, Sherlock, is to fortify it. A shame that a genius such as yourself skipped over the basic steps any psychology student knows to attend to. Your memory palace needs to be defended, or it can be broken into.”

 

Sherlock felt his stomach lurch as an unbidden image of Lecter in the darkened theatre, and of the cracks in the blank room sprang to mind. Lecter noticed his reaction and his grin deepened so that he looked like an animal baring its teeth.

 

“So you _have_ seen me.”

 

Sherlock felt sick and angry, and tried to refute him. “What are you talking about?”

 

Lecter wasn't fooled for a second, his excitement growing and he looked at Sherlock with hunger naked in his eyes. “Sherlock, you already know this. We compartmentalize the different types of knowledge we possess inside the memory palace. We place an avatar of the people in our lives to personify a certain type. It allows us easier access to our memories when we can recall someone familiar.”

 

Lecter didn't laugh, but let out a short sound that was close to one, and it raked cold fingers up Sherlock's spine. “Now, whenever you need to catch a 'monster', you are going to pay me a visit. I'm touched.”

 

Sherlock shook his head, a diamond hard, angry smile on his face. “I'll have to build you a prison cell then.”

 

Lecter spread his arms wide and had a mockingly innocent look on his face. “Are you going to arrest me? You aren't an official detective with Scotland Yard.”

 

Sherlock reached into his pocket for his phone. Lecter went back to smirking.

 

“Oh, please do. I would find it very amusing to see you bring Detective Inspector Lestrade here for your bold accusations. And no evidence.”

 

Sherlock stopped, and he felt an overwhelming surge of hatred for the elegant, charming demon mocking him in the shadows. They were at a stalemate. “You won't get away with this.”

 

Lecter licked his lips, dropping the smirk from his face and stepped towards Sherlock. He brought his mouth close to Sherlock's ear, and Sherlock had to will himself not to spook. He could feel Lecter's breath stirring his hair and he felt an intense fear for the teeth behind that smirk.

 

Lecter whispered, “I'm going to walk away from here untouched. Are you going to make that call? Or are you thinking of trying to stop me yourself? You didn't bring Dr. Watson's handgun with you.”

 

Lecter stepped back again, straightened his suit and then nodded his head politely towards Sherlock in the form of a bow. “Goodnight, Mr. Holmes. Please make my apologies to the Watsons.”

 

“I'm going to kill you Dr. Lecter.”

 

Lecter just gave him that polite smirk as if to say 'we shall see', turned on his heel and walked away. Trembling, Sherlock waited until he could no longer hear the footsteps in the distance, every click of Lecter's heels spelling his failure.

 

***

 

Watson was clearing away the last of the dishes when Sherlock came back in, looking dazed. Mary had declared she was going to take a very long bath, already suspecting that Watson would want some privacy to lay into Sherlock for his outrageous behaviour. Seeing Sherlock sit down heavily at the dining table, looking utterly lost, Watson felt some of his anger evaporate.

 

“Is Lecter coming back?”

 

Sherlock just stared blankly at the table. Finally he shook his head.

 

“Have a friendly chat?”

 

Sherlock remained silent and unresponsive. Watson tossed the last dish into the soapy water and sat down in the chair across from Sherlock. He waved his hand in front of Sherlock's face and then snapped his fingers loudly in the air.

 

“Earth to Sherlock Holmes.”

 

Sherlock finally surfaced, his eyes meeting Watson's. He blinked and his eyes lost their glazed look, and he finally seemed himself. But there was an anger burning underneath the surface of his gaze. In a low voice he said, “I solved the case.”

 

Watson was taken slightly aback, and leaned in excitedly. “You've found Mckinley's killer?”

 

Sherlock nodded, his voice still low and his eyes burning. “And he is a very dangerous serial killer. From America.”

 

Watson and Sherlock stared at each other in silence for a long moment. Sherlock had uttered that declaration with a sense of gravity, and Watson had to rearrange his thoughts to understand his meaning. When the answer hit him, he felt as if he had been slapped in the face. He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, silently asking him to stop joking, but Sherlock's expression remained the same.

 

His mouth opened, his head tilting as he struggled to digest the startling news. He asked irritably, “Are you serious?”

 

Sherlock nodded soberly. Watson felt himself grow angry again, still reeling and unwilling to accept the answer. Sherlock had baited him before, teasing to see if Watson would swallow an outrageous lie, and the man had a damn good poker face. Watson felt furious that Sherlock could stoop so low to try and fly a lie that ridiculous by him, but he was also desperately wishing his anger was justified.

 

Watson's voice was thick with incredulity and annoyance. “You're telling me that _that_ man is a homicidal maniac who likes to slice people open and take their organs? And that he works with the FBI in America, catches other serial killers, and is one himself?”

 

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders lightly and an almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “He isn't a maniac. He's too smart for that.”

 

Watson's mouth fell open in shock, the anger rising again, and he pointed a shaking finger at Sherlock's face. “You still _like_ him! You think he's some madman who goes around murdering people and you still like him! _Christ,_ Sherlock-”

 

Sherlock snapped back at him, “I don't think, I _know_ what he is. Hannibal Lecter is a psychopath who sees the people around him as an inferior species. He murders those who offend him and eats the trophies he takes.”

 

Watson spluttered, “Eats? He's a bloody cannibal now?”

 

Sherlock looked at him calmly. “That's why none of those trophies are ever found. He eats the rude. We are his cattle.”

 

Watson sat back heavily in his chair, a worried hand glued to the side of his face. “You've lost your sodding mind, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock looked hurt, and Watson immediately regretted his words. Sherlock ignored the comment however, and asked, “Do you trust me, John?”

 

Watson's insides squirmed, but he already resigned himself to the answer. He trusted Sherlock implicitly. Not to be a nice person, or even a good friend all of the time, but to do what he thought was right. And it was rare that Sherlock was wrong. He gave a quick, stuttered nod, and saw the relief break over Sherlock's face.

 

“You don't seem afraid.”

 

“I was an hour ago, but I'm not anymore. I've processed it and put it away. Now is not the time to be afraid, John.”

 

Watson still felt overwhelmed and like Sherlock had asked him to believe in magic, but he trusted Sherlock and held onto that anchor. The animal fear was starting to creep in now, battering against the shell of disbelief, but he could feel it seeping through the cracks. Watson let out a small, mirthless chuckle, as he tried not to dissolve into a gibbering wreck.

 

“He sat at my table...he was cooking in my kitchen...”

 

“He served you herring. He was baiting me, but he had no intentions of harming you tonight.”

 

Watson glared up at Sherlock, the mirthless chuckle still bubbling around his lips. He was furious again, because it was the easiest emotion to access that wasn't fear. “It's Moriarty again. You've got another psycho trying to get to you, because _you_ can't stop playing with them. And I get caught up in the mess.”

 

“He wouldn't have hurt you tonight-”

 

“ _Tonight_.” Watson was on his feet and only realized he had raised his voice when he heard it ringing in his ears. “I'm still in harm's way though, aren't I? All because you couldn't leave well enough alone, _you_ had to test a madman and get him to play your stupid game, fed right into whatever twisted rivalry this is-”

 

Sherlock tried to interrupt him, growing impatient. “John, none of this is productive-”

 

Watson exploded. “ _He sat at the table with my fucking wife!_ ”

 

The outburst startled both of them. Watson realized he was breathing heavily, and after an awkward moment he sat back down. Sherlock couldn't meet his eyes, and he looked ashamed.

 

“I'm sorry.”

 

Watson held up a hand to stop him. “I don't want to hear it.” There was a tense moment as Sherlock looked up at him, but Watson finally broke out into a nervous smile. The anger was bleeding out of him. After a good shout he found it easier to let go of his pent up frustration.

 

“You're the stupidest genius I've ever met.”

 

“I'm the only genius you've ever met.”

 

Watson raised an eyebrow. “I've met Lecter now.”

 

They shared a much needed laugh together, though it stemmed more from a release than any humour in the situation. Watson was still angry with Sherlock for having placed them in danger once again, but it wasn't as important as figuring out the next step.

 

“Are we going to tell Lestrade?”

 

Sherlock twiddled his thumbs anxiously. “I don't have any hard evidence. Lecter left no fibre or hair traces, there is no CCTV footage or records of where he was that night, and there obviously won't be any traces of Mckinley at his current residence.”

 

Watson frowned in thought. “You don't think there could be anything amongst his possessions?”

 

“Not enough for a conviction. And not enough for Lestrade to get a search warrant.”

 

Watson drummed his fingertips on the table as he wracked his brain. Sherlock seemed just as frustrated by the dead end as he was, and it was unique for them to both be confounded by the same problem. “So, we can't depend on the law for this.”

 

“You should stay with Mary from now on.”

 

Watson looked at him with surprise. “Why do you say that?”

 

Sherlock folded his hands together and spoke as if he had considered this solution already. “I can't guarantee it, but I don't think Lecter will harm you while you're with her. Mary is a charming, polite and courteous woman. I think he would consider it rude.”

 

Watson pursed his lips as he took that in. Sherlock spoke with a damning confidence that told him he knew more of Lecter than he cared to. Watson ran over a dozen different ways they could try to convince Lestrade, but realized it was futile. That left only one option. He glanced over at Sherlock and said carefully, “You should call Mycroft.”

 

A shutter fell over Sherlock's face. Watson tried to be gentle, but the situation was desperate. “Scotland Yard can't help us, the conference is tomorrow and then Lecter will be back in America. We can't let him get away with this.”

 

“I won't.”

 

The way Sherlock made that statement scared Watson. It had a terrible ring of finality about it. Watson shook his head, forcing Sherlock to meet his gaze. “Sherlock? You aren't going to solve this by doing something stupid. You need to call Mycroft.”

 

Sherlock's eyes were glistening and there was something wild in them. Watson could see the outline of some personal demon battling inside Sherlock, twisting him around on the inside. He was quiet and there was a crack in his voice. “I can't.”

 

***

 

“That pass isn't valid, Mr. Mckinley. Could you come this way with me?”

 

Mycroft stepped up smoothly to the counter, a warning hand closed over Sherlock's arm, but in a pleasant voice he said to the security officer, “Is there a problem here?”

 

Sherlock watched as the security officer checked Mycroft's identification, radioed in to his superior, and then quickly ushered them on their way. Mycroft looked annoyed with him, but also had a superior, smug expression on his face. They walked down the foyer to the main conference room together.

 

“So when I told you not to get into trouble-”

 

“You were right.”

 

Mycroft still thought Sherlock was being facetious and stopped outside the conference room doors. He sounded weary and short, but Sherlock knew when there was a tinge of concern in his brother's voice. “Sherlock, whatever you believe, I am looking out for your best interests.”

 

Sherlock gave him a small, sincere smile. “I know, Mycroft.”

 

He pushed open the doors and stepped inside, leaving his brother to ponder that smile in the hallway.

 

Dr. Lecter was still only giving the introduction to his lecture, but the room was packed. Sherlock found an empty seat at the very back row, but noticed Lecter's eyes flicker towards him when he entered. Lecter smirked slightly and continued his anecdote about the London Symphony Orchestra.

 

Sherlock folded his hands together and rested his chin against his steepled fingers. He recalled the first time he had met Lecter he had been playing 'food chain' at Mycroft's party. The room was filled with noted and celebrated psychiatrists and law enforcement specialists. All well educated, resourceful and trained.

 

But the answer to who would survive the longest trapped on a deserted island was very simple with Lecter standing at the podium, the attention of the audience in the palm of his hand.

 

There was movement beside Sherlock and a ripple through the audience as someone new entered the room. Sherlock was startled when Lestrade slipped into the seat beside him. Lestrade nodded at him, looking unsure as to exactly why he was there.

 

“All right, Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock looked at Lestrade, stunned, and then glanced down at the Detective Inspector's waist. Lestrade was wearing his holster and the butt of his sidearm was peeking out from inside his jacket. “You're armed.”

 

A grim look settled over Lestrade's face, and in hushed tones he said, “Watson told me that you had a lead. And that Mckinley's killer might show up here.”

 

Sherlock fought down a cold wave of panic. “John's here?”

 

“He's waiting in the car with a couple others. I've got men posted at the rear exit too.” Lestrade leaned in close to Sherlock, a hint of his war face showing. “Watson couldn't tell me much, but I can tell when you two have gotten in over your heads. It's just me and a small team off duty, but...I want to make sure things don't get sticky.”

 

Sherlock sent a silent thanks to Watson, but couldn't let go of the panic completely. Lecter had begun the main part of his lecture now, and his maroon eyes scanned the room and rested on Lestrade. Though his face betrayed nothing, he locked eyes briefly with Sherlock and his eyebrow raised a millimetre. Sherlock felt a sheen of sweat break out on the back of his neck.

 

The last thing he wanted was for Lecter to feel hunted.

 

Slides of the crime scene photos for the Minnesota Shrike were projected onto the screen behind Lecter. Lestrade leaned in to Sherlock and whispered out of the corner of his mouth, “How do you make a gruesome thing like that so damn boring? I bet you're just eating this up.”

 

Sherlock hissed, “Do shut up.”

 

Lecter was, unsurprisingly, an excellent orator. He was thorough and knowledgeable, respectful of the victims he discussed, and detailed without being graphic. When he spoke there wasn't a sound in the theatre, save for Lestrade shifting in his chair, and all eyes were on him. Though the door was only a few paces away, Sherlock felt trapped. Though Lecter had the gift of making anyone in an audience feel as if he were speaking to them directly, Sherlock inwardly shivered with the knowledge that he was truly the object o Lecter's attention.

 

_How does that make you feel?_

 

Sherlock could hear Lecter's voice like a clarion whisper in his ear, almost felt the presence of the doctor beside him, even though his eyes were telling him Lecter was on the stage. He felt like he was underwater and drowning.

 

“I have reserved this portion of the presentation for any questions.”

 

Eager hands immediately shot to the air, and a ripple of polite laughter at the display of enthusiasm. Lecter accepted the approval with a graceful smile and gestured to a female psychiatrist in the front row who pressed him for further details on his profiling methods.

 

Sherlock watched the erudite and elegant man standing on the stage. Graceful, handsome, charming and monstrous. When Lecter called for another question, Sherlock raised his hand in the air.

 

Lecter directed his gaze to Sherlock, a private and knowing smirk on his face. “Yes, Mr. Holmes?”

 

A few heads turned in the audience to the back row to look at him. Sherlock ignored them all, because they didn't matter. The moment he had stepped into the conference room, he and Lecter both understood it was only about the two of them.

 

“What is your opinion on Dr. Will Graham?”

 

The audience looked eagerly towards the stage. Sherlock had asked them a question that had been burning on all of their lips, but had held back from out of courtesy. To them, Will Graham was the hot gossip of the law enforcement and psychiatric cycle, a juicy scandal spoken of at the water cooler.

 

Sherlock envied their ignorance.

 

“While I cannot discuss an open case, I would be lying if I did not anticipate the curiosity regarding my relationship with Will Graham” The audience laughed in appreciation. Lecter paused by the podium, resting his arm casually against it. Sherlock thought he looked like a conductor, directing the emotions and atmosphere of the room with subtle, but commanding touches.

 

“Will is an intelligent, insightful and charming person to know. He is alone. An outsider. His very unique capabilities are also what isolates him from the main hub of society, and it is a burden for any person to live in isolation. Will doesn't possess the social skills to cope with situations we take for granted.”

 

Sherlock's steepled hands were pressed to his lips. He knew Lecter was speaking for only his benefit alone, and the subtext was not lost on him.

 

“I developed a friendship with Will through our sessions, as I found him engaging and I sympathized with his struggles. A few of my colleagues have advised me that I have allowed my personal prejudice of him to colour my opinion on what he has done.”

 

Lecter paused, as if struggling to continue. The audience was rapt with attention, baring their souls to the tragic figure of a man standing lost before them. He had pierced each of them with a hook, drawing them in closer to his web. Though he knew the truth, even Sherlock felt moved by him, and that insidious feeling was just as terrifying as the knowledge of what Lecter could do.

 

“I can only say that I do not want Will to be friendless, even in this dark time. Though I have reconciled the fact that I may not have truly known him, I still have the desire to help him. It is irrational, yet...”

 

Lecter looked to the audience as if he had just noticed they were there, interrupting his private thoughts. He smirked. “...perhaps we are all a little mad.”

 

The audience erupted into a standing ovation, but Sherlock remained seated. The sounds of their adulation was deafening and echoed around the room. He wanted to jump up and yell at the crowd. Tell them that they were applauding the stellar performance of a monster pretending to be a man.

 

Lestrade was still seated as well, an unimpressed and even scathing look on his face as he looked at the crowd fawning over a lecture he had found thunderingly dull. Sherlock felt a rush of gratitude towards the surly Detective Inspector in that moment.

 

Sherlock nudged Lestrade in the side. “I'm going to the men's.”

 

“I'll come with.”

 

Sherlock rose to his feet, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat. “No, no. Patrol the halls.”

 

He quickly slipped out of the room, Lestrade's gun resting inside his pocket. He left the dull roar of applause behind him, knowing that Lecter would follow him.

 

***

 

Hannibal was gracious with his time and shook hands with his fellow doctors who wanted to congratulate him on an electrifying presentation. He took their praise modestly and promised to catch up with them later. He was an ambush predator, and the distance was closing in on the perfect moment to strike.

 

Holmes had slipped out of the room before him, but Hannibal wanted to give him a head start. He knew where Holmes would be, after all. The detective smelled of a particular brand of soap, the old cooking smells of Baker Street, and the signature scent of his sweat. Every person had their own unique brand of perfume, and Hannibal followed the trail leisurely down the hallway to the hotel's kitchen.

 

Holmes was leaning against one of the stainless steel counters, two glasses of wine beside him. The staff were busy preparing the lunch for the conference attendees and ignored them. Hannibal walked over and Holmes held out one of the glasses to him.

 

“I didn't poison it,” Holmes said.

 

Hannibal sniffed the wine's bouquet and had a knowing smirk on his face. “No, I would be able to smell it.”

 

They delicately clinked their glasses together and said in unison, “Sveikata.”

 

Hannibal sipped, because it was an expensive, but poor vintage hotels liked to push onto ignorant guests. Holmes downed his glass in one swallow with a grimace. Hannibal cradled the glass in his palm and then walked over to the side exit of the kitchen. He pushed the door open to reveal the fire exit that lead to the roof of the hotel and began to climb up the metal stairs.

 

A few seconds later he heard and felt the vibration of Holmes' footsteps. Hannibal smirked again, leading Holmes up to the roof and further into the snare.

 

***

 

“What do you mean you've lost him?”

 

Lestrade snapped back, his voice crackling over the line. “What did you want me to do? Help him shake at the urinal? He gave me the slip, all right? I'm still checking the main floor.”

 

Watson bit back a scream of frustration. “Are the others still covering the back entrance?”

 

“Yeah. Just checked in on them.”

 

Watson pinched the bridge of his nose. He wanted to yell at Lestrade, but mostly he wanted to yell at Sherlock. Then shake him. Then punch him. “Okay, we'll keep an eye out here. I'm going to patrol around the building.”

 

“Did you bring your pistol?”

 

Watson froze mid-step. “Why?”

 

“Because Sherlock bloody stole mine.”

 

Watson hung up, breaking into a jog towards the side of the hotel, his heart in his throat.


	6. Chapter 6

 

The wind gusted around them, plucking at their clothes and hair as they stood facing each other, waiting for the first move. It felt as if a large wave was rushing towards them, waiting to break over and spill.

 

Hannibal leaned in to Sherlock, his eyes raking down Sherlock's chest and waist. He sounded drily amused. “I can smell the metal and gun oil coming from your pocket. Do you know how to properly use a gun, Mr. Holmes?”

 

“It's a rather simple machine, Dr. Lecter. I certainly know enough to kill you.”

 

Hannibal pursed his lips mockingly. “I doubt that.”

 

Before Sherlock could react, Hannibal threw the wine into his face and threw the glass down onto the ground. The glass shattered around Sherlock's feet as he hurriedly wiped the wine from his eyes. Hannibal ran across the roof in long, nimble strides and leapt from the edge to the roof across from them. Cursing, Sherlock ran to catch up, the glass crunching underneath his feet.

 

Sherlock pulled the gun from his pocket at the edge of the rooftop, aiming and firing at Hannibal's retreating form. The shots cracked against metal railing and gravel, Hannibal still leaping forward unharmed. Sherlock swore again, he had given up the momentum needed to make the jump, and instead began scrambling down the fire exit stairs to the ground. A mental map of London was already present in the back of his mind as he calculated where he could intercept Hannibal.

 

Sherlock was caught by surprise when the rickety metal stairs shuddered around him and he lost his balance. Hannibal had launched himself off the roof and landed on the fire exit stairs on both feet, like a cat. He grabbed Sherlock's coat and pushed him off the rail.

 

Hannibal was very fast, and Sherlock had wasted time at the roof, allowing him to double back with a graceful turn of his heel. The detective fell to the ground, winded, but unbroken. They were not high enough for the fall to have injured him, but Hannibal knew Sherlock would need a moment to be able to stand again and he vaulted down the fire exit stairs.

 

Sherlock gasped painfully, his eyes watering. He saw a dark shape move across his vision and brought up Lestrade's pistol. His head slammed painfully into brick wall behind him as Hannibal struck, fists bunched into his shirt again, and he was hauled to his feet.

 

Hannibal twisted Sherlock's arm painfully above his head, and swiftly jabbed two fingers into a pressure point. Sherlock felt his whole hand go numb and Hannibal easily took the gun from his nerveless grasp. Sherlock could feel Hannibal's breath curl around his throat and the hard muzzle of the gun press against his stomach.

 

Sherlock laughed, a fierce challenge in his eyes. “You aren't going to shoot me, Dr. Lecter. That would just spoil the fun.”

 

Hannibal smiled back, his fingers digging cruelly into Sherlock's bicep. “It would.”

 

Sherlock's chest was heaving, his back was on fire, and he spat, “You don't need to kill. You do it because it amuses you. There's no rhyme or reason to what you do. You just do it because you can.”

 

Hannibal almost rolled his eyes and his voice dripped with sarcasm. “Astounding, Holmes. You cut me with your simplistic deductions.”

 

Hannibal then released Sherlock, taking a step back and pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. Sherlock eased the aching muscles in his arm as he watched Hannibal wipe down the gun and toss it onto the ground. Hannibal then straightened his suit and slicked back fly-away strands of hair.

 

“Walk with me, Sherlock.”

 

The 'why' was naked on Sherlock's face, and Hannibal smirked. “Or would you prefer we remained in vicinity of Dr. Watson? He is here, searching for you. Would you like him to join us?”

 

Hannibal held out his arm as if he were offering it to a woman, and chuckled darkly at the look on Sherlock's face. Sherlock shoved his hands into his coat pockets, wishing he could pick up the gun from the ground, but knowing it was impossible. They moved further down the side street, leaving the hotel behind them, walking in step with each other as if they were two friends out for a stroll.

 

Sherlock was damned if he allowed Hannibal to dictate their every movement, and turned onto the main road when they were a few blocks away from the hotel. He hoped Watson and Lestrade had noticed his disappearance by now and realized soon he was no longer at the conference.

 

Sherlock's phone began to ring.

 

Hannibal snaked an arm around Sherlock's waist, and held open his free hand. Sherlock saw the mild, polite expression on Hannibal's face, knew what lurked underneath, and the threat held in the casual arm around him. He reached slowly into his pocket and placed the phone into Hannibal's outstretched hand.

 

Hannibal casually tossed it aside and it clattered to the ground. Sherlock inwardly cursed the man for not hanging up first, which would have alerted Watson that something was wrong. Sherlock continued to walk forward, hoping to reach the shop at the intersection corner, but Hannibal gripped his arm lightly and forced them to stop. Hannibal held out a hand to an oncoming taxi and it stopped in front of them.

 

Sherlock went in first, feeling as if he were sitting in a car that was taking him to his execution. Hannibal handed the taxi driver an American hundred dollar bill. “221B Baker Street. I would appreciate your haste.”

 

“You got it, mate.”

 

The taxi lurched forward, speeding down a road that was uncluttered by traffic. They would arrive at Baker Street in just under seven minutes. An ironic smirk twisted around Sherlock's lips and he muttered lowly, “In my own home?”

 

Hannibal had an unfettered smile on his face. “It cuts deepest where you feel safest.”

 

***

 

The second they crossed the threshold into 221B Baker Street, Holmes slammed the door into Hannibal's head. Hannibal's reflexes were excellent and he managed to hold up an arm and deflect the brunt of the blow. Sherlock ran inside the flat towards the kitchen and grabbed a knife.

 

Sherlock felt his head snap back as Hannibal grabbed him by the scarf and pulled with such force that Sherlock stumbled. A knee slammed into Sherlock's tailbone and he felt his back explode with pain. He swung the knife wildly behind him and felt it connect with flesh, but Hannibal was strangling him with his own scarf. Sherlock swung the knife again, saw the scarlet gleam of blood on the blade and knew it had struck home, but Hannibal didn't let up an inch.

 

Sherlock's vision was being consumed by black blossoms, his chest burning as it screamed for air. He sank to his knees, and Hannibal pushed him to the floor of the kitchen, straddling his arms so he couldn't move. The vice grip around his throat slackened and Sherlock wheezed and coughed gratefully, sucking in deep breaths of air.

 

Hannibal grasped his face, twisting Sherlock's head painfully so he could look into the detective's eyes. The knife had grazed his arm, the torn fabric of his sleeve wet with blood.

 

“You've ruined my suit, Mr. Holmes.”

 

Sherlock gasped, “You can afford it.”

 

Hannibal grinned, his teeth shining in the dim kitchen. Sherlock struggled beneath him, but Hannibal was too strong for him. Hannibal brought his face close to Sherlock's, drinking in the panicked light in the detective's eyes. “You are a singularly rude man, Sherlock Holmes.”

 

Sherlock was still wheezing, his abused chest pressed to the floor. He spat, “Who's number three?”

 

Hannibal lifted a curious eyebrow. There was a gleam of demented triumph in Sherlock's eyes, even pinned to the floor by a killer, he found a savage thrill in being able to surprise Hannibal.

 

“The trillium. The sounders. Mckinley was the first, I'm the second – who's your third?”

 

Hannibal's face relaxed into another smirk and he caressed Sherlock's temple. “You are brilliant, Sherlock. But thickheaded, and predictable. It has been a pleasure dancing with you.”

 

Hannibal rose slightly, anticipated Sherlock's attempts to free himself, and plunged the knife into Sherlock's gut. The detective let out an airless gasp, hands scrabbling at Hannibal's arm, but Hannibal pushed the knife in deeper at an agonizingly slow pace.

 

Hannibal then removed the knife and hauled Sherlock to his feet. Sherlock's face was contorted with pain, one hand grabbing at the dark, spreading stain on his shirt and the other closing around Hannibal's throat. Hannibal stood calmly, feeling Sherlock's fingers squeeze, his eyes boring into the other man's. Sherlock had a wild look of determination on his face, but after a moment the grip around Hannibal's face slackened as the pain overwhelmed him.

 

Hannibal swung Sherlock's arm over his shoulder and lead him to the sitting area, depositing him into an armchair. “Who are you afraid the third of the sounder will be, Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock's face was pale and he fought hard not to shiver. His hands were slick with his own blood and he could feel it pooling in his lap. The pain was deep and indescribable. He felt like his mind was racing at a thousand miles per hour as it usually did, but every single pathway was broadcasting pain and adrenaline.

 

Hannibal's fingers gently ran over his own throat, and he held them up to his face to see the blood smeared there from Sherlock's handprint. He delicately pressed a wet fingertip to his tongue and tasted it. His eyes fluttered closed, his jaw working as he savoured the drop.

 

“Are you afraid for Dr. Watson, Sherlock? How well does he know you?”

 

Sherlock felt the tremble coming over him now, but held onto his anger because it was helping him shut out the pain. “You...won't...touch him.”

 

“No, I won't.” Hannibal had a friendly look in his eyes, which only perturbed Sherlock. “Not unless it becomes necessary.”

 

Sherlock struggled to force the words out. “Who is your third? You always kill in threes.”

 

Hannibal laughed, and it sounded rich and hollow all at once. “Sherlock, you intrigue and disappoint me at every turn. There is no third. Have you learned nothing at all about me?”

 

Hannibal perched himself on the arm rest of the chair. “I am not a slave to any compulsion. I am very adaptable.”

 

Sherlock began to laugh, but then stopped as it hurt too much. Hannibal reached down behind the chair and then brought up Sherlock's violin. He held it out to Sherlock. “You are in shock. You will fall unconscious soon. I would like you to play something for me before you do. Please.”

 

Sherlock looked up at Hannibal incredulously. “Is right now an appropriate time for a little light music?”

 

Hannibal held out the violin and bow insistently. “There is always time for beauty.”

 

With trembling hands, and an immense amount of will, Sherlock removed his hands from the gaping wound in his side and held the violin. His fingers trembled, but stubbornly he placed the violin under his chin and raised his arm to bow. His fingers were sticky against the strings, and the pain in his side prevented him from bowing smoothly, and the first notes screeched and stuttered.

 

Hannibal closed his eyes and listened in rapture. Every stutter of the bow, every discordant tone from the violin, every jagged screech rang in the air like a gorgeous symphony. The coppery smell of Sherlock's blood swum in the air along with the halting music and it was heavenly. It was raw and broken, but it was also a powerful testament of a man's will. Bleeding and in shock, Sherlock Holmes was forcing the violin to bend to him, to tease out the notes that were clumsy in his shaking hands, and the melody was the swan song of Sherlock's relentless determination to see a thing done. Hannibal thought it was one of the most moving pieces he had ever heard.

 

There was a loud _crack_ and Hannibal felt something pierce his neck. His eyes snapped open and he saw the bow broken in Sherlock's hand, pressed into his skin. Hannibal's hand closed around the jagged shaft of wood quickly, a trickle of blood oozing down his neck.

 

A wolfish grin broke over Hannibal's face. Though Sherlock Holmes had managed to pull him into a stalemate at the very last moment, it was the perfect end note to an aria of human will, and he appreciated it.

 

There was a wild happiness and pained satisfaction on Sherlock's face. “Goodbye, you sick bastard.”

 

Sherlock shoved the broken bow with all his strength, but Hannibal's grip trembled with force, preventing it from digging deeper in. Hannibal didn't look frightened at all. He looked as if he had not enjoyed a moment with Sherlock as much as this.

 

“Sherlock, you are sentencing Will Graham to death.”

 

A frown of confusion spread over Sherlock's face. He glared suspiciously at Hannibal, his arm trembling. “You did that. You set up Will Graham and framed him. His death is on you.”

 

Hannibal spoke calmly, the amusement lifting from his face and a more sobering look in his eyes now. “All true. And Will Graham sits in a cell in a mental asylum alone and without allies. The only champion he has is the truth.”

 

“No one believes he's innocent.”

 

Hannibal's gaze continued to bore into Sherlock's, unrelenting and intense. “Belief is fragile. All human emotion is. We don't put any stock in such flawed systems. You discerned the truth by examining the evidence and by following through with a logical deduction. A lie cannot destroy that.”

 

Hannibal tried to move the bow away from him, but Sherlock held fast, pressing deeper. He gave Hannibal a dangerous, warning look not to try that again and Hannibal conceded. “If you kill me then the truth dies with me. So does any chance of Will Graham being released from his torment.”

 

Sherlock felt a new surge of hatred rush through him. He knew Hannibal was trying to manipulate him again. There was a sort of fierce pride that Sherlock felt in knowing that Hannibal was doing everything in his power to stay alive, that Sherlock actually had him backed into a corner. But Hannibal was manipulating him by showing him what the cost of winning would be.

 

Hannibal almost looked regretful and Sherlock could not tell if it was genuine, only that it wasn't completely false. “Will needs me.”

 

“Why should I care for the life of a man I've never met?”

 

Hannibal smiled a little, his voice gentle. “You two are very alike.”

 

Sherlock let out a derisive laugh, inhaling sharply as it sent a new flare of pain in his side. “That's no incentive.”

 

“Here we sit, Sherlock. A 'monster', as you call me, and a detective. You don't share the cares or concerns of the mindless crowd around you. Neither do I. We will always stand apart from them as they watch in bewilderment and ignorance.”

 

Sherlock ground out, “I am nothing like you.”

 

Hannibal was patient. “Yes you are. But we are also different. You sit where you do because you have decided that you believe in the justice the law provides. You care that an innocent man sits in abandoned in a cell, and you will care if he is given a death sentence.”

 

Sherlock thought of the blank room in his mind palace, and of his mental image of Will Graham shaking and seizing in the chair. The cracks on the wall. He felt a little helpless, wondering if he had constructed that on his own or if Hannibal had planted the suggestion, and knowing that he would never fully be certain.

 

“If you believe in evidence, science and logic, in the legal system you aid, then you have the hope that Will Graham will be freed. And we are nothing without our convictions.”

 

Sherlock fought down a shiver and the blackness crowding in his skull. He struggled to keep his eyes open, anger licking hot in his insides as well as a sense of despair. “I had nothing to do with this...you did...it's twisted to have it fall on me...”

 

Hannibal nodded slowly in commiseration without a hint of irony. “Most people do not understand that though a responsibility is unfair, it must still be shouldered. A man's innocence is now your responsibility, Sherlock Holmes.”

 

A bitter smile stretched into a grimace on Sherlock's face. The scales had fallen from his eyes. He could see Hannibal Lecter clearly now, saw exactly what kind of creature sat before him. He could see every subtle trick, every choice of word, every manipulative turn Hannibal had been using on him the whole time.

 

It was with a bizarre mixture of hatred, frustration, and admiration that Sherlock felt as he also saw that he had no choice to turn away.

 

There was the sound of sirens in the distance. Both Hannibal and Sherlock's eyes flickered to the open window. Hannibal remarked calmly, “Your companions are on their way.”

 

He smirked at Sherlock. He looked disappointed, but not afraid. “Pity. I was looking forward to more than just a taste.”

 

The jagged bow pushed warningly against the tender skin of Hannibal's neck and he chuckled, holding up his free hand. “I apologize. That was inappropriate of me.”

 

Sherlock felt dizzy, and knew he wouldn't be able to stay conscious for much longer. The adrenaline was going to pass in a few minutes, and his reserves of strength were draining quickly. He could either shove the bow deep into Hannibal's neck, or he could stay awake long enough for Watson to find him.

 

Hannibal's eyes met his again, and it was as if he could read Sherlock's mind. “Will Graham needs a friend more than ever now. Like Dr. Watson rushing to your aid. It is a sad thing to be utterly friendless and to never know loyalty.”

 

Hannibal Lecter then closed his eyes, his face peaceful and serene as he resigned himself to whatever fate Sherlock Holmes decided for him.

 

Sherlock's fingers trembled, and then tensed around the bow.

 

***

 

Watson burst into the flat, Lestrade close on his heels. He saw Sherlock sitting in his armchair, his coat bundled tightly around him. Sherlock looked pale, but otherwise shot them a disinterested look.

 

“Where the bloody hell did you go?”

 

Lestrade looked around the flat, surprised to find it empty. “What about Mckinley's killer?”

 

Sherlock shot Lestrade a dismissive look. “Didn't show, waste of time. You should go, Gavin.”

 

Lestrade snorted incredulously, shaking his head in angry disbelief. “You are really something, you know that? You lead me on a fucking goose chase, _steal my gun_ and then disappear-”

 

“You're being boring.”

 

Lestrade went red in the face and almost exploded. Watson looked nervously at Sherlock, wondering what the hell he was playing at. Lestrade growled, “damn you” and stormed out of the Baker Street flat, slamming the door behind him so forcefully it shook.

 

Watson was about to ask Sherlock what the hell he was thinking, but saw Sherlock's face crumple with pain the second Lestrade was gone. Watson then noticed how white Sherlock's face was and rushed over.

 

“Help me, John...”

 

Sherlock's hands were tensed into claws as he fumbled with the buttons of his coat. Watson knelt down to help him and then realized the dark coat was wet. He saw the pink smears on his fingers and hurriedly undid the coat. Watson sucked in a breath when he saw the dark soaked shirt underneath, and the hint of a gaping cut.

 

“Christ, Sherlock, what have you done?”

 

Sherlock mumbled, “Saved Will Graham.”

 

Watson ran for the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and grabbed rubbing alcohol, gauze, and hunted for a needle and thread. He called out, “How long have you been bleeding?”

 

Sherlock's voice was faint and sluggish. “Can't remember...”

 

That was more alarming to Watson than the sight of Sherlock's blood. He came back quickly with the supplies, dumping them onto the floor and then pulling Sherlock to lie flat on the ground. He ripped open Sherlock's shirt and began to clean the wound. Sherlock's back arched and he groaned with pain.

 

“What happened? You and Lecter disappeared from he hotel – did he do this to you? Where is he now?”

 

Sherlock shook his head, mumbling incoherently, and Watson checked his pulse. He quickly threaded the needle and began stitching the wound shut. Sherlock was now a patient under his care who had lost too much blood, and his medical training took over.

 

“Stay calm and _stay awake_. We need to get you to the hospital.”

 

“No...no hospital...”

 

Watson raised his voice, keeping it firm and insistent. “You need blood, Sherlock, and a proper examination. This wound is deep, it might have nicked an internal organ.”

 

Sherlock let out a weak laugh, slipping into delirium. “No...he isn't careless...”

 

Watson slapped the side of Sherlock's face. “You are _not_ going to bleed out on your carpet, do you hear me?”

 

Sherlock was insistent, gripping Watson's arm weakly. “No hospital...please. Can't know...I've been stabbed... _your_ office. Sneak in...”

 

Watson sighed heavily, but resigned himself to that decision and pulled out his phone to call a taxi. There was no other way he could get Sherlock medical attention, and that was of the imperative. There was no time to panic or fret. Watson was a man who stayed calm under pressure, because that was what was necessary to save his friend.

 

Sherlock looked at him curiously through heavy-lidded eyes and his fingers gripped Watson's sleeve harder. He held onto it with blood-slicked fingers as if it were his only lifeline.

 

In a thick voice he said, “I am glad you're my friend...John.”


	7. Epilogue

Sherlock looked at the black and white photo of Will Graham, mutilated in a hospital bed, and felt a deep twinge of pity for the man. Lecter had carved his testament of their friendship so deeply into the man, that Will Graham would have an ugly reminder of it for the rest of his life.

 

In his own perverted and twisted way, Hannibal Lecter had kept his word. Sherlock followed Will Graham's case with every breaking development, and saw through it to the end when Graham was vindicated and released an innocent man. The subsequent confrontation and capture of Dr. Lecter was violent and tragic. The sordid details of his activities and the horrors he had committed were splashed on the headlines of newspapers around the world, and he had earned the unoriginal nickname of “Hannibal the Cannibal”.

 

Sherlock saw the famous picture of Hannibal Lecter in a straight jacket and barred mask, sitting in the cell that had eluded him for too long. He felt no victory at the image, and he didn't think Will Graham did either.

 

Sherlock placed the photograph into the drawer that held the case files and evidence of Lecter's crimes and closed it. He then locked it. He didn't want to look at it again.

 

Sherlock heaved a sigh and looked around the blank room inside his memory palace. There was still a crack left on the wall, much smaller than it had been previously, but deep. Sherlock ran his fingers over the faint scar on his side. They resembled each other.

 

There were two pinpricks of red light that shone from within the darkness of the crack.

 

Sherlock looked to the centre of the blank room and saw the chair. It was empty.

 

He walked out of that room and took what small victory he could.

 

***

 

Hannibal Lecter sent him a card every Christmas, and Sherlock kept them in an old biscuit tin on top of the mantel of his fireplace. He never replied to them, but came to expect them every year.

 

Sherlock kept up to date with the articles Lecter published within his cell at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. He even had a good chuckle over Dr. Frederick Chilton's misguided rantings on what kind of psychopath Lecter was. The man was a fool and knew nothing. Lecter was unquantifiable, and Sherlock knew he toyed with Chilton because Chilton was incredibly offensive on two counts: both stupid and rude.

 

Sherlock had been tempted every now and again to place a phone call to Lecter. For a scandalous serial killer, Hannibal Lecter was still allowed many privileges in his life sentence within an institution. The allure of the game and the memories of how exciting it had been tugged faintly on him.

 

But Hannibal Lecter was in a cell and the playing field wasn't level. The pain and the fear of that time had no hold over him anymore, because Sherlock didn't linger over emotion. He knew it was abnormal, and probably unhealthy that his disinterest stemmed from a sense of boredom, but he had decided long ago that he didn't like being psychoanalyzed.

 

He followed the Buffalo Bill murders with some interest, but was distracted by his own work. Clarice Starling came across as a bright and determined young woman, a spark amidst the tedium. Sherlock knew Lecter would toy with her, but ultimately he wouldn't harm her in his own way of helping her like he had Graham. With that concern out of his mind, his attention turned closer to home.

 

He was having tea with Watson and Mary when the package arrived.

 

“What's that?” Watson asked.

 

Mrs. Hudson shrugged, passing it to Sherlock. “I don't know, love. It was just sitting in the hallway with the rest of the post.”

 

Sherlock tore the brown paper wrapping and considered the plain box. It wasn't too large, it was light, but sturdy and he puzzled over what could be inside as he prised off the lid.

 

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mary gasped, “who sent that to you?”

 

Inside was a beautiful violin. Sherlock ran his fingers over the polished wood before picking it up by the neck. He admired it, turning it this way and that, and then plucked experimentally on the A string. It was perfectly tuned.

 

Sherlock grinned to himself, the others standing around curiously, and he searched inside the box for a card. He held it up to the light and read aloud, “For your trophy collection.”

 

He plucked the strings with his fingers, picking out a wandering tune. The sound was beautiful. He smirked at Watson. “Hannibal Lecter has escaped.”

 

***

 

There was a hush in the theatre as the lights went up on stage and the audience held their breath. There was always the moment, right as the conductor lifted his baton, a bubble of anticipation and silence that seemed to stretch on for a delicate eternity.

 

And then it was broken by a beautiful sound, the void suddenly being filled with a crashing wave of energy and life as the orchestra sent up its musical call, and one believed in that moment that the sound reached the heavens.

 

The blonde gentleman leaned back into his seat, a finger resting against his temple as he soaked in the sensation, a smirk fluttering around his lips. Inside his private box, it felt as if he were the only being in a private universe.

 

He closed his eyes as the London Symphony Orchestra thundered below him, feeling the jubilant swell of the symphony's first movement. Though he had a false nose covering his true features, he sensed something in the air and gently sniffed. It was the very faint perfume of a flower...

 

...a trillium. His smirk deepened into a grin and he lazily opened his eyes.

 

“Sir,” the voice was quiet beside him. He held out his hand and the usher placed the card between his fingers. Though it was dark in the theatre, his excellent vision could very clearly see what was written.

 

_Stay out of England._

 

He chuckled at the card and tucked it into the breast pocket of his suit. His eyes scanned the audience, two pinpricks of red light in the darkness. They rested on another man in the box across from his. Their gazes locked.

 

Hannibal slowly nodded to Sherlock from across the theatre, the only two who mattered in that space. He could see the returning smirk on the other man's face.

 

Sherlock held up a wineglass in the air, and Hannibal raised his in answer.

 

Silently, they both mouthed the word, “Sveikata.”

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Happiest of happy birthdays to Jelly, who put up with all of my whinging and ranting as I banged this out for her birthday cursing her out the entire time. This was so difficult to write, but a fuck ton of fun because I love both of these characters and the challenge of writing them. I hope I've done them justice and have stayed true to the essence of each. 
> 
> I've pulled mainly from the television adaptations of both characters, but also from the other Thomas Harris novels (though it isn't necessary to have read them to understand what's happening in this fic). I think to fully enjoy this one would need to be familiar with Season 1 of Hannibal, but not 2. The timeline has had to be altered slightly, and this story would fall after Hannibal Season 1 where Will Graham is arrested, and probably a little into Season 3 of Sherlock. Mary and John are already married in this story, and Moriarty is 'dead'.
> 
> The story is dark, and I've tried keeping everyone firmly in character (Sherlock's characterization is fully taken from the show and not the literary version). It's hard when you have two geniuses showing off, so I've tried my best to play it with fair with both Hannibal and Sherlock. I hope you guys enjoy! (and that I don't have either fandom running after me with pitchforks and carving knives - I swear! I tried to make everyone happy! *hides*)


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